


Dragon's Breath

by trilliath



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Also name that Supernatural Cameo, And adventures and emotions and shit, BAMF!Stiles, Blood Magic, Evil magic witches, M/M, Magic violence, Magic!Stiles, mostly baddies, some people die, tattooed!stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-15 02:00:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 56,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trilliath/pseuds/trilliath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Between the hunters and the monsters that have interfered with life in Beacon Hills, the pack has had to learn a lot in the last few years, including Stiles teaching himself to practice magic in private. It's not exactly a secret from the pack, but it's not something he's shown much. When it comes time to put his skills to the test, Derek is the only one who finally gets to see Stiles's wild magic put to use saving Erica's life from a new threat in town.<br/>The aftermath changes something between them, and those tenuous lines tangling them together may mean the difference between life and death for them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Italiano available: [Dragon's Breath](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7235794) by [ShallICompareThee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShallICompareThee/pseuds/ShallICompareThee)



> So there was this art by machineries (since lost) and I couldn't stop thinking about Shaman!Stiles.  
> So I wrote a Magic!Stiles scene, in which Derek must watch as Stiles must use his magic to save Erica.  
> And since there can never be too much Magic!Stiles it turned into a whole adventure...

Stiles is gasping for breath. But it's not like panic, not like fear. It's these deep, low, chest-heaving breaths, like a runner who has already run hard for miles. Who has hit their fast-pace stride that they can't keep up forever, but at a hard rate that they can keep up for a while. 

As long as needed, really.

Further than you'd think.

It's like the blood that's still pouring from the neat wounds on his arms, dripping onto Erica's clothes and skin beneath instead of the bowl now that it's not needed. There's a steady flow, but only so much can be spilt before…  
It's Stiles in a nutshell.

But Stiles doesn't notice these things. He's far too focused on the chant spilling from his lips, on the bowl of blood and the array of herbs and powders he'd placed there.

And because his job is simply to hold Erica down, to keep his head level in the place of panicking betas, Derek is the only one noticing things right now. Like the sweat running down Stiles's bare chest. The tattoos that had been accumulating unseen these past few months under the younger man's perpetual layers of shirts and cheery smiles.

Symbols of power, of protection. Derek knows enough to know that much.

The amber shade of Stiles's eyes is almost… no, it _is_ glowing, lit like the fire that burns in Stiles's soul is finally manifest in the visual realm.

Derek has always seen it, has always been wary of it and entranced by it, the wolf circling the clearing where the humans built their fire.

Fire. It was always fire that reached him, that altered his soul, changing him forever. He can't look away. He can never look away from the wiry young man.

Stiles's voice cuts off abruptly and his eyes snap to Derek's

He doesn't need any words to know that the fierce look means _be ready_.

He tightens his grip on Erica's shoulders as Stiles tips the bowl, spilling spilt blood, splashing it into her mouth and over her mottled face. 

Erica screams, back bowing up in an impossible arc. Stiles holds her mouth open, forcing the potion into her throat. 

She shakes. She goes still. 

She breathes.

The unnatural green fades from her veins. Derek's hands are red with Stiles's blood. 

He hears the echo of whimpers from the rest of the pack who stand guard in various places beyond the dark room. His eyes are only on Stiles as he wavers, gasping for breath. This time the breaths are less steady, closer to the absolute edge. Derek leaves Erica after only a moment's hesitation in which he checks to see that she's still breathing. The actual wound is small. The magic _emergency field surgery_ to excise the poison is done, and whether she'll survive now is already written.

But Stiles…

He tears open Stiles's bag, looking for the rolls of white bandages he knows will be there. But this time Stiles doesn't move to take the bandages from him and dress his human wounds like he usually does.  
Then again, the situation is hardly the usual scrapes and abrasions of a human who runs with wolves.  
The dressings are quick and dirty, just to try and stop the flow of blood so they can get the hell out of there. 

"Boyd," he bellows, calling for his calmest wolf. And the one who refused to go further than the door when Stiles demanded the quiet and space in which to work. The door starts to open. He knows the others will not be far behind.

"My…," Stiles whispers, fingers twitching urgently towards the discarded pile of his shirts. His eyes are dull ash over a smoldering fire as he looks up at Derek. And Derek understands. He helps Stiles pull a shirt over his head, covering the tattoos and the roughly-bandaged cuts on his skin. He puts the fire away, shades it from golden lupine eyes.

Though the others flood the room, eager to leave this place behind, it's Derek who lifts Stiles into his arms, who cradles his head to his shoulder. 

His hands are red with Stiles's blood. But his throat is hot with Stiles's breath.


	2. Chapter 2

When Stiles starts shaking Derek knows that he can't just take him to his place. He needs to be somewhere with heating and food and fresh water. And a solid roof, considering the heavy rain that's picking up and thumping against the roof of his Camaro. 

At a stoplight, he reaches over to touch Stiles's skin. It's clammy, and the eyes he blinks at Derek are glassy. 

That's it. 

"I'm taking you to the hospital," Derek announces, putting on his turn signal. 

Stiles's hand flails in the space between them as though he can make the turn-signal stop its clacking. 

"You lost a lot of blood," Derek argues. 

Stiles makes a faint huff of breath in disagreement. 

"If you take me to the hospital, they'll just put me on suicide watch," he says faintly. Derek glances over at him, gaze falling to forearms hidden by the bunched fabric of a sweatshirt. 

He has a point. 

"But they might also treat your injuries," he says. 

"What, give me fluids and a prescription for some SSRIs? They wouldn't bother with a transfusion. Didn't lose enough blood," he mutters, huddling further down into his hoodie. Derek turns the heat on high. 

"Just take me home," he says. 

He's weak, but that includes the exhaustion from working the spell. Derek listens for a moment. His pulse is steady, as is his breathing, not rapid and fluttering like someone about to go into shock. He's wary enough of official channels himself to understand the resistance to going to the hospital. 

Derek turns off the turn signal and proceeds straight instead. 

He doesn't know when he started acquiescing to Stiles this way. Oh, he'd always listened. He'd always been alert to the fire that burned beneath the surface. But accepting his decisions even when he didn't fully agree... 

Perhaps some time after the period when Derek had been recklessly growing his pack, high on arrogance… and managing to be less mature than the sixteen year old at every turn. Maybe it was when Stiles held him up in the swimming pool till his body gave out. Perhaps it had been when he'd sacrificed his long-coveted position on the first line just to help Derek. It all seemed so long ago. It _was_ a long time ago. Years. 

Maybe it was no particular moment, just the realization that he was braver than all of them, every moment of every day. 

But when he'd ordered the pack out of the room, tearing open his bag to get at the tools of his trade, determination and confidence in his every atom… when the rest of the pack had followed his orders without question. When he'd shed his clothing without even the slightest hesitation, and slashed his skin with hardly a sound… 

Absolute trust. 

He pulls up in front of the Stilinski house, turns off the car. The Sheriff's cruiser is in the driveway and he can see lights on inside. This isn't going to be easy, for any of them. He feels the familiar urge to run eating at the back of his throat but he swallows it down. Stiles fumbles for the door as though he intends to make it inside by himself, but Derek reaches over and tugs his hand back, pushing his hands to his heart and fixing him with a stern look. 

"Wait," he says. Stiles glares at him but is too weak to resist. He shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over Stiles's body. Enough to shelter him at least a little from the pouring rain. He also slings Stiles's bag over his shoulder, knowing that he'd be livid if it were left behind. 

He steps out into the rain and ignores the fat drops that quickly soak through his shirt at his shoulders. He makes his way around to the passenger side where Stiles is already inching the door open. But even that is too much effort. Derek ignores his feeble protests and lifts Stiles once again, kicking the door shut behind him. 

"Shut up, Stiles," he growls. 

Stiles goes boneless in his arms, giving up his resistance. It has Derek looking down in consternation for a moment, but Stiles's eyes are looking back up at his. Tired, but he's still conscious. He blinks as a fat raindrop hits his cheek and Derek lurches into motion, carrying him to the front door. He tries the handle. It's locked. 

He realizes that even if it hadn't been, walking into the Sheriff's home unannounced was a good way to get yourself shot. Normally, that'd only be annoying for the sake of the pain and the damage to his leather jacket. But his arms are full of Stiles, who is currently the perfect example of human frailty. 

He nudges the doorbell with his elbow and Stiles grumbles, "I have keys you know, in my pocket. Like most normal human beings." 

Derek raises an eyebrow. "Come on. You should be impressed I remember how to use a doorbell." 

Stiles huffs a faint laugh, eyes brightening as he focuses on Derek's. Humor is good, Derek thinks, helps burn away the fog. But then Stiles's face changes with sudden realization. 

"Wait, Derek, my dad-," he's saying as the door jerks open roughly. 

"Stiles!" Sheriff Stilinski barks, striding forward to put his hands on his son, turning his head so he can see him. 

"'m fine dad," he mutters. 

The Sheriff looks like he's torn between arguing with Stiles and tearing into Derek, but practicality wins out. 

"Get him inside," the Sheriff orders, his jaw tight, stepping back to let Derek pass. 

Derek silently carries him up the stairs. It feels strange to be going in the front door for once - let alone with the Sheriff in attendance. He wonders if it'll be the last time. He tries to ignore the tiny frisson of hope that it is, perhaps, only the _first_. 

"His room-," the Sheriff begins, hard on his heels. But Derek is already striding into Stiles's room. The Sheriff doesn't finish his sentence. After a loud pause, he instead turns on the light and comes to stand at the side of Stiles's bed, turning down the covers so Derek can lay him down under them. Derek realizes belatedly that the Sheriff isn't supposed to know that Derek knows his way around the Stilinski house. He has a feeling that will all be moot soon anyway. Derek takes a pillow and shoves it under Stiles's feet, elevating them. Then he kneels beside the bed to tug off Stiles's shoes, and he hears the sharp intake of the Sheriff's breath. 

He realizes that in the light now the blood on his hands and Stiles's clothing will be clearly visible. He doesn't stop though, and continues to free Stiles of his sneakers which are also smeared crimson. 

"He's lost some blood," Derek says quietly, standing and going for the cabinet in the bottom half of a bookcase in which he knows Stiles keeps his accumulated first aid supplies. 

"Donated, really," Stiles adds, laughing faintly at his witticism. "Cookie." 

Derek glares at Stiles over his shoulder at that. 

"What?" the Sheriff murmurs, eyes fixed on the bloody shoes and splashes of red on Stiles's jeans. 

"Dad," Stiles continues insistently, drawing the Sheriff's attention away from the crimson stains. "And app' juice. You get that when you donate blood." 

When Derek turns, he sees the Sheriff standing frozen in the center of the room, staring at him, at the large box of bandages and first-aid gear in his hands. Another thing a former suspected murderer knows about his son that he doesn't. 

"Breathe, Dad," Stiles orders, and Derek thinks it's a good idea lest he have to worry about treating both Stilinski men for shock. The Sheriff scrubs a hand over his mouth, eyes wide with dismay as he looks back down at his son. Derek returns to Stiles's side and sets the box down, bending over him to touch his face. It's less clammy now that he's in the warm house, laying down on the bed. 

He looks tired, but his eyes aren't muddled when he looks up at Derek. He listens again. Stiles's pulse is still steady and strong. 

"Nausea? Dizziness?" he asks. 

Stiles shakes his head slightly. 

Derek nods slowly. "Ok. No shock," he says. 

"See? Told you. 'M just tired," Stiles replies , turning his face to rub against the inside of his hoodie again. "Still. Jeans suck for sleeping in. Restrictive clothing and all that, not good for your blood-flow." 

Derek glowers at him more out of habit than anything else and reaches for his feet. He pulls Stiles's slightly damp socks off, tossing them on top of the discarded shoes. When Derek reaches for Stiles's waist and begins undoing his belt, however, the Sheriff makes a strangled noise. 

"Dad, juice," Stiles repeats firmly, turning his head back to face the Sheriff. "Please." 

Derek doesn't stop, just methodically undoes the button at the waistband and pulls the zipper so that he can tug the fabric down over Stiles's hips. And though he tries to think only in practical terms, Derek knows as he touches Stiles that the Sheriff is not wrong to be aware and apprehensive of the intimacy. Derek sure as hell is. _Not like this_ the voice in the back of his head murmurs. After a moment he hears the Sheriff walk away and head back to the stairs, presumably on his way to the kitchen. 

"This sucks," Stiles murmurs. "My dad is going to be so stressed out now." 

Derek doesn't comment. He focuses on getting Stiles's jeans off and then replacing them with pajama pants from the drawer Stiles had pointed to. 

"You've got to be kidding," he mutters, and hears Stiles's gleeful snicker behind him as he returns with flannel pants covered in little cartoon wolves. The humor stokes the light in Stiles's eyes once more and Derek finds the corners of his mouth fighting to turn upwards at the sight. He tries desperately to ignore the feeling of muscles flexing under his hands in Stiles's bare thighs as he helps him tug on the wolf-strewn cloth. 

Pants back on, Derek tugs the leather jacket off Stiles and helps him take off the sweatshirt and long-sleeved shirt beneath. The shirt was a loss, but the hoodie didn't seem to have any stains on the arms. The field dressings had done a lot to stop the bleeding. The cuts had been sharp, the wounds clotting more easily than a rougher abrasion might have. 

"Get me a tee shirt, please," Stiles says, interrupting Derek's motion towards the old bandages. "He doesn't know about…" the tattoos, Derek surmises from Stiles's glance down at his bare chest. Stiles's cheeks warm as he does. Derek obliges him, handing him a baggy tee from the next drawer up. 

Derek makes quick work of the old bandages, swiping the wounds down with cleaning wipes and ointment, then replacing them with more careful wrapping. Stiles has him adjust a line here and there, clearly more experienced with wearing bandages than Derek ever would be with his werewolf-enhanced healing. 

When the Sheriff returns, glass of juice and plate of cookies dutifully in hand, his face is determined. Derek finishes taping down the last bandage, and bundles the discarded ones with the ruined shirt and stuffs them in the trash can. The Sheriff pales further when he sees the sheer quantity of stained fabric, but he steadies himself and brings the sustenance to Stiles who is making grabby-hands in the air at him. 

Of course, when Stiles has a mouthful of cookie, that's when his dad's mouth starts to work again. 

"What in the _hell_ is going on?" he demands, looking between them. "How did you lose enough blood to worry about going into shock? And why do you have so many first aid supplies? Since when do you hang out with Derek Hale?" His mouth gaps open and then he sucks in a sharp breath and his eyes narrow as he turns his attention on Derek. 

"And since when do you know your way around my son's bedroom," he grits out, eyes sharp enough to make clear the _and I have a gun_ that's clearly in his head. 

Derek remains silent. Stiles washes down his mouthful of cookie with some juice. He's looking better by the moment. 

"Dad," he begins quietly, drawing the Sheriff's gaze once more. "There are a lot complicated answers to your questions, not all of them are mine to tell. But I will tell you this; I did what I had to in order to save my friend's life tonight. That's all you need to know right now." 

He pauses, then looks at Derek, dismay blossoming across his features. 

"Oh my god, Derek! You should go check on her. I don't know how much damage the poison did before I destroyed it. I mean, what if her wolfly powers of healing are out of commission? Shit, Derek, why aren't you with her?" he demands, voice getting more upset with each word. "I'm fine! She could be-," 

"Hey!" Derek barks, and Stiles's mouth snaps shut. He settles back, pursing his lips into a frown, but listening. 

"The others are with her." 

Stiles scowls. Derek makes a supercilious face back. The Sheriff looks at a loss for words. 

"Still," Stiles argues indignantly, amber eyes bright with determination. 

And he's not wrong. The tug of the pack has been in the back of his mind ever since they separated, and it is getting harder to ignore. Derek sighs. 

"Fine. I'll go check on her if it'll make your heroic ass feel better," he growls, though there's no bite behind the bark. 

"Good," Stiles says and smirks in response, stuffing another bite of cookie in his mouth. 

Derek sends him a withering look, but he turns to go. He doesn't tell him to take care, or to get well soon. He doesn't tell him how terrified he'd been when Stiles had passed out in his arms on the way to the car. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't know how. 

"Hey Derek," Stiles calls after him, and Derek pauses in his doorway, glancing over his shoulder. 

"Thanks," he says quietly. 

Derek glares down at the carpet for a moment, then nods once before striding away.


	3. Chapter 3

Erica has never been his most affectionate beta. Isaac has always been the one most prone to the instinctual drives for comfort, and Boyd is a point of steady warmth. Not overly affectionate, but he'll sling an arm around someone for a casual hug here and there.

Erica doesn't like to be touched. Not most of the time and for plenty of good reasons. But it had been an hour ago when Derek had lifted her head up off the mattress and slipped in so he could lean against the wall. She'd curled hard into his chest with a whimper. They both let their instincts take over, pressing against each other for the steadying certainty that another being's life-force could bring. Ignoring the boundaries and personal spaces developed in human society was easier when you were a werewolf. Easier still on hard days.

After a few minutes of stroking her hair and gently touching the wound in her neck and feeling her skin for signs of fever and weakness, he had relaxed. She was fine. Healing a bit more slowly thanks to the poison, but healing well. He'd given in to his alpha instincts and had pressed his face into her hair, scenting her, comforting her. He might have even dozed off.

Eventually he notices that her fingers are tracing over his hands, rubbing in places, then scratching. It's a little odd, even for a werewolf. But when he looks down at his hands he realizes what she is doing. They are still stained red in places, the undersides of his fingernails dark with dried blood.

"Is he okay?" she whispers finally, turning her head on his chest to look up at him with eyes that look like garnets but flare golden in the shadows.

"Yeah," he replies softly, stroking a broad hand over her hair. "Yeah he'll be fine.

A shudder runs through her. She swallows back emotion and burrows her face back down against his heart, listening to the warmth. Derek listens to the sound of her breath and closes his eyes.

 

He's not sure how much time passes but he has a feeling it isn't long when his phone buzzes in his pocket and startles him fully awake. Slipping the offending object from his pocket he frowns sharply when he realizes from the caller ID that it's Stiles. A cold feeling washes through his head as he answers immediately.

"Stiles," he says by way of greeting.

"Derek, hey," he says in reply, and Derek relaxes a little. His voice sounds tired, but calm enough. "How's Erica?" he asks.

"Sleeping. She's doing good," he says, glancing down at the young woman huddled against his chest.

"Good. That's good. So. I hate to do this after you've only been gone a couple hours, but I could really use some... help. I kinda had to... explain things to my Dad. Because I tried to tell him it was better he didn't actually know the details, but the thing is, he doesn't understand why it's better he doesn't know, because you have to _know_ to understand why you shouldn't know… you know?" Stiles says in a customary jumble, followed with a faint self-deprecating laugh.

Derek sighs. He does know. It also seems that the problem with having a Sheriff for a father is that he is about as likely to let something go as Stiles himself is. Which is to say; not a chance in hell. The 'trust me' argument wouldn't fly, no matter how much the Sheriff trusted Stiles. Derek understood, but he wasn't exactly happy about it. The more people that _knew_ , the more problematic it became to protect them.

"The thing is," Stiles continues, "he doesn't believe me. About any of it - which, given my habits of stretching the truth is, you know, not a bad strategy. But," he sighs, and Derek can hear the faint rustle of fabric as Stiles moves from wherever he's sitting. "He's worried. And so he's threatening psych evals and so on, so… Yeah, I'd prove it myself, show him what I can do but…"

"No," Derek says firmly, thinking how pale Stiles had looked crumpled in his arms, drained of all his energy after using his power to help Erica.

"Yeah," Stiles agrees. "So, can you… come give him some proof? You know, wolf-out maybe? I'd ask Scott but he's not so great with the control stuff yet, and you're like a pro which seems pretty useful in this case. I mean, you don't have to. Since, you know, fair warning, I can't promise he won't shoot you, so…"

"Ok."

There's a brief pause as Stiles lets out a tense breath through his nose and then repeats, "Ok. Thanks."

Then he laughs, again in that faint breathy sound that is borne of exhaustion. "Well… just maybe don't wear anything you don't want holes in. So like not your nice leather jacket."

Derek doesn't really know what to say, so there's a brief pause before he decides on "I'll come straight over," then hangs up. He shoves the phone back in his pocket and slowly lifts Erica's body off of him, settling her back onto the mattress.

As he steps out of the room two head pop up from the couch, twisting to look at him.

"Stiles is having to explain things to the Sheriff. I'm going to help," Derek says, frowning at them. Normally he doesn't explain his comings and goings but this time it concerns them too. 

"Need us?" Isaac asks, getting up.

Derek shakes his head.

"Just keep her company," he says. "I shouldn't be gone too long."

 

When he arrives, Stiles greets him at the front door, apparently having been standing guard. It's beyond late and into the territory of being terribly early. The sky hasn't started to lighten yet on the edges of the horizon, but it will soon. The silence is loud as he shakes off the rain as he steps into the foyer.

"Dude," Stiles says after a moment, eyes focusing on Derek's jacket.  
Derek just quirks an eyebrow at him as he slips the jacket off and hangs it on the coatrack.

"Oh. That works too," Stiles says, a momentary grin passing over his mouth. Derek's gaze flits over him, cataloguing the paleness at his throat and the stiffness of his motions. He's dressed again, but it makes sense. It's stupid - he should be resting. But it's not easy to argue with your dad in your pajamas.

Stiles scrubs a palm over his mouth, the white edge of the bandages flickering under his sleeve. "How's Erica?"

"She's fine," he repeats, voice gruff.

"Right. You've said that already. All right. You ready? Nevermind. Of course you are. Ready for anything," he mutters, rambling nervously as he leads them down the hallway past the stairs and towards the kitchen.

The Sheriff is sitting at the table, hands folded in front of him, face set in deep lines. Though the position could be casual, the rigidity of his back and the tension in his limbs clearly indicates otherwise. He looks determined to keep his cool, though the dismay is clearly under the surface fighting to get out as he looks up at Derek when he steps into the kitchen. Stiles paces over to the kitchen counter, leaning heavily against it for support. Derek drifts to a stop in the empty space in the middle of the room.

"My son-," the Sheriff begins, then pauses as his voice threatens to crack. He clears his throat and begins again. "My son claims that the reason his wrists are slashed to all hell is that he is some sort of… warlock," he says, face screwing up at the absurd statement, "and that he had to save Erica. And the reason she couldn't go to a hospital is because she's a werewolf. And you're a werewolf. She's in your… pack," he recites, face stony as he gazes up at Derek.

"Now," he begins, voice deadly quiet, "the only reason I haven't marched out there and arrested you all for… assault or attempted brainwashing or… cult-like… whatever. Whatever. The only reason is because Stiles claims you and he can prove this to me, beyond any shred of a reasonable doubt. Now, I've never known my son to be gullible, but," and his eyes dart over to Stiles who is watching them looking bone tired. "But… well I've been gone too much, haven't been doing a good enough job being here to help guide him, to be his father," he says.

"Dad-," Stiles murmurs, disagreement clear in his tone.

The Sheriff ignores him. "And he's young yet," he says quietly, eyes shifting sharply back to Derek, more than a little added weight behind the words.

Stiles makes a scoffing noise but doesn't interrupt. Derek remains standing perfectly still, feeling wildly foreign in this warm kitchen filled with the scents of home-cooked meals and whiskey. Gun oil. Not earth and wolf. Not fire and death. 

"So, if you would, I'd like to see that proof now," the Sheriff finishes, voice steely, but concern clearly there in the undertones.

Derek knows his face is grim as he nods. He casts a glance at Stiles, but the look in those amber eyes is unreadable for once, gazing back at him steadily.

He takes a slow breath and closes his eyes. A lifetime of practice makes bringing up the mental state that allows the change a simple matter. Being born a were meant it was often more of an effort to will the wolf side away. All the anger and worry about the night's events is more than ready for an outlet.

His exhale holds a faint vibration of a growl as his body tenses beyond human limits. He unfurls his fingers from the fists they had made, fingers straining against the claws. He tips his head back on a groan as the adrenaline floods his body and his muscles flex. He lets the change glide over his face as it has so many times before, extended nasal ridge enhancing his sense of smell, brows thickening and hooding his eyes, jaw grinding as he draws down his fangs. Suddenly he can smell the sweat on the Sheriff, the scent of his aftershave. The faint residue of blood from Stiles draws his attention for a moment. He takes a halting step towards the young man and Stiles's chin lifts stubbornly, not a hint of fear in the face of the fearsome. Just a steady tension and confidence. Derek shakes his head gruffly as the amber of his eyes draws in his focus to the task at hand once more. 

He takes a few heaving breaths, trying to equalize the pressures of his amped-up system with nowhere to go. Then he gazes back down at the Sheriff, who is sitting there, slack-jawed with one hand resting on the butt of his pistol.  
"Proof," Derek grinds out, voice dark and rough against the sharp edges of his teeth.

The werewolf form is a lot to hold on to when reined in so tightly in the silence of a threat-devoid kitchen, so Derek takes a step or two back till he bumps into the refrigerator, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders as he drops the transformation, heading back to human.

It's not painless, but it is a familiar pain, and one which leaves him a little bit more empty, quieter and darker inside himself. It's the silence, not the pain, which has him gazing at the floor for a few steadying breaths. When he does look up, it's straight to Stiles. There's a flicker of relief and... pride, perhaps? Or... appreciation in his gaze.

The sheriff looks even more pale than his son. For a long moment the silence remains, then he clears his throat. Then he shakes his head incredulously as he clears it again, trying to free some strangled words.

"Well, that would explain a few things," he says finally. As he stares inward, running over thoughts and memories, his eyes dart back and forth.

"Thanks, Derek," Stiles says, voice grateful but tone of the words clearly a dismissal.

"Now wait just a minute there young man, I still have some questions," the Sheriff blurts, half rising from the table as Derek turns to go.

Stiles rolls his eyes and throws up his hands in exasperation, taking some stiff steps towards Derek. "I'm sure you do dad, but it has been a really shitty day and I'm sure Derek could use some sleep," he says, glancing significantly at the kitchen clock which reads 4:45.  
The sheriff frowns and opens his mouth as if to protest, but pauses and nods in acquiescence.

Stiles sighs out a relieved breath, looking weary instead of pleased at getting his way. He steps forward and pats a surprisingly broad palm against Derek's tensed shoulder, giving him the go-ahead to step into the hall. Derek accepts the direction. The sheriff's head is canted down as he stares at nothing.

"Thank you for doing that," Stiles says again, voice quiet as they pace up the hall. He glances up to meet Derek's eyes, nearly on the level with him when he lifts his head.

Derek shrugs a dismissal of the gratitude, unfamiliar with the earnest yet almost soft look in the younger man's eyes. He doesn't know what to do with this look. And faced with the pale and worn presentation of Stiles's countenance he almost misses the more familiar grating edge of Stiles's supercilious mockery. That he could deal with. 

"I mean that. You didn't have to do that for me." 

Derek stares at him and Stiles blinks back at him. They're close in the narrow hall, close enough that Derek has to resist the urge to draw in a deep breath of Stiles's scent. He watches Stiles's eyes widen as the teen half-turns, rubbing absently at the back of his neck. "I mean, I know how private you are."

Derek shrugs as he pulls his jacket on. He feels off-kilter. The memory of Stiles's pale neck bent against his shoulder is vivid in his mind. The feelings going with it are such a mess all he wants to do is run.

"You didn't have to save Erica."

Stiles frowns at him, looking like he wants to argue, then ducks his head in acknowledgment. He nudges the front door open then leads the way out, hands shoved in his jeans pockets. He blows a frustrated breath out between his lips as he stares at the rain still falling lightly past the edge of the porch.

"Any word on the perp?" he asks, changing the subject as Derek follows him out.

Derek fights the edge of a smile at the policeman's son.  
"No."

"Well... let me know, ok? I don't want you guys going up against her without me. That is some nasty mojo she has going on," he says, casting a stern look at Derek.

Derek lifts his chin, but finds himself relenting. He's not wrong. Without him Erica would have been dead. 

"Then I guess you'd better heal up fast," Derek says, voice rough.

Stiles rolls his eyes, the edge of a wry smile tugging at his mouth. "Well thank you Captain Obvious," he cracks.

Derek gives him a withering look and Stiles makes a supercilious face at him in return, a genuine smile building underneath as it fades.

But then there's only silence save the gentle patter of the rain, and it's just the two of them, standing there, staring at each other on the porch. His gaze is drawn down when the younger man's adam's apple bob as he swallows, tongue darting out to slip over his lips in a reflexive gesture. When he looks back up, Stiles's eyes are on his mouth, lips parted slightly. He's suddenly aware of the way his heart is racing.

Abruptly Stiles jerks back a step, hand coming up to scrub over his mouth.

"Right. Drive safe," he says, then turns on his heel and reaches for the door.


	4. Chapter 4

Despite his intentions to go home and get some sleep, Derek ends up staying, watching the house. Though he glares at himself in the car mirror for it, he tells himself he's there just in case something goes sour. Just in case Stiles needs him. 

It's not bad reasoning, after all. Though he has little direct experience with "bringing someone in" who he wasn't immediately going to turn, he remembers lessons and stories told by his family as a kid. No matter who or when or how, the stories came with words of deep caution. Admonishments not to trust that things are okay even when everything looks fine on the surface. Warnings to expect unexpected and/or irrational events and delayed reactions.

He has faith that Stiles can handle things, but he knows about the delayed effects of difficult things.  
So he stays.

That's why a few hours later he's there to see Stiles storming out the front door, slamming it behind him and marching away from the house. It's cold, his breath puffing in a white mist in front of him in the crisp dawn air. The sky is still slightly overcast from the night's rains, and the wind pushing the clouds along is brisk. 

He watches in his rearview mirror as Stiles scrubs rough hands over his short-shorn hair, then moves away from the house towards the sidewalk, bypassing his jeep and tugging his flannel sleeves down over his hands. He's walking down the street towards Derek. He doesn't think Stiles has seen him yet, but the path he's taking means he will. Derek starts the car and rolls down the window. He waits.

A minute or so later Stiles's head ducks into the door frame. Derek doesn't know what to say. He doesn't want to try and explain why he's there, because he isn't really sure himself. So he just glances at Stiles, then looks back at the leather of the steering wheel beneath his hand.

Stiles, amazingly, doesn't have anything to say for the moment. Instead he steps back and opens the door, sliding into the seat. Derek just puts the car in gear and pulls away from the curb. The wind whistles through the gap of the closing window as he picks up speed until suddenly it's cut off as the glass hits the seal. 

There's silence in the car. Stiles just kind-of sinks into the leather, eyes closing for a long moment. His skin still looks so thin and pale, like paper. His throat moves sharply as he swallows, lips pursing and curling in tiny flickers at the automatic motion.

"Are you alright?" Derek finds himself asking quietly.

Stiles's eyes flick open, wide with faint surprise as he looks over at Derek. His lips part a moment and then close as his eyes track quickly over Derek. He shrugs and fiddles idly with the hem of his shirt as he looks away, bandaged and twice-clothed forearms wrapped across his abdomen. 

"Yeah, fine. You?"

Derek just nods, turning his gaze back to the road. Mostly. Stiles does the same, amber eyes tracking the passage of asphalt and the handful of other cars out in the early morning. He drives almost aimlessly, both of them silent.  
For a while he takes streets that run through the city, then Derek turns onto the road out of town. It's not any road in particular, just one that runs out in the woods and leads to back-roads and the shield of tall walls of trees as the dawn light filters through their branches. 

He grows aware of the steady pattern of Stiles's breath and heart beat, just a hair faster than normal. Hears his breath and the rhythmic tapping of his fingers against the seam of the leather seat. He knows his own pulse isn't commensurate with a Sunday drive, though on the surface that's exactly what they're doing.

It feels like something is happening. 

They spend nearly an hour, just driving in silence, listening to the growl of the engine, the whisper of the wind and leaves blowing down from fall-heavy trees. 

Eventually they pull up in front of the Stilinski household. The sheriff's cruiser is gone. Derek glances at the space between him and Stiles, not needing to see the teen's eyes to know they are similarly turned half-way in his direction. Stiles takes a thready breath, then steps out. After a moment he turns, leaning against the frame of the Camaro. He pauses there, dipping his head so that he can meet Derek's gaze. His lips part over a word that never comes, his eyes soft but locked onto Derek. He feels fixed, riveted to his seat. Though Stiles's expression is quieter, more tired, it reminds him viscerally of the moment the night before when he'd invoked the spell. Held in thrall of his power. Eventually Stiles glances down, breaking the gaze, then nods and steps back, shutting the door behind him. 

Derek pulls away from the curb, only resisting for a moment before glancing into the rearview mirror to catch a glimpse of Stiles. He's standing, hands in pockets, staring after him, looking pale and ethereal as the corners of his flannel shirt blow in the wind. Derek purses his lips and pushes the gas pedal more firmly, focusing back on the road. His heart is running fast in his chest. The silence just feels like silence now.

He has no idea what's just happened, but he knows _something_ has. And he sure as hell doesn't know what to do with it. It occurs to Derek that Stiles doesn't even know how powerful he really is.

He drives home. It doesn't matter that the place is little more than a burnt-out shell of what it used to be, it will always be home to him. Some days he's still surprised when he sees the desiccated remains when he rounds the bend, some part of him still expecting to see the well-maintained paint and children playing on the porch. It's foolish, and painful to hold onto the memories, the dreams of a younger man... but he can't let them go. No matter how hard he slams the door to his car when he arrives. Oh, he's not delusional. He doesn't imagine his family will magically return, or the dreams he had as a teen will ever be the same, but there's something that keeps him coming back.

As is his habit he paces the perimeter of the house. Especially with at least one of his betas inside he wants to be sure that the latest menace in town hadn't set their sights on the old Hale home.

He stands upwind of the house for a while and waits, letting the scents of the surrounding areas flow over him. He closes his eyes and turns ever so slowly. With just a little concentration he draws on his Were abilities and gets a vivid picture of the area. 

The soft rustle of small animals scurrying through the woods. The earthy smell of rotting leaves and the plants that fed on them. A squirrel freshly killed by a Stellar's Jay - he can hear them squabbling over the corpse. The surprising rich scent of a patch of Candy Cap mushrooms, Lactarius rubidus. 

He smiles sadly at that. His mother had loved searching out the mushrooms that grew on their land, loved teaching him and his siblings about them. He remembers the first time he'd found that particular species of mushroom as a Were, the complex and sweet scent overwhelming. He decides he'll have to remember to show them to the pack. The lessons of the forest are his to teach now, after all.

The forest is well. There are no scents of intruders or disruptions. He sighs, letting his senses diminish back to merely human. He's weary. After a surprise attack that had sent the pack into a desperate retreat, he'd had maybe an hour of sleep. It's not something that's unfamiliar to him. His brief life as a lone wolf had taught him how harsh life could be when you were completely alone. Someone to take watch while you slept is a priceless thing to have.

And, amazingly, it _is_ something he has. 

When he climbs the creaking steps and pokes his head in his makeshift bedroom he finds his betas curled up where he left them, sleeping on the mattress in a tangle of limbs. For a moment he worries about them having spent the whole night, but the sad truth of it is that probably none of them were really missed - at least not for a lone Friday night. 

He watches them sleep for a while, all piled together, heads burrowed into each other's bellies and thighs. The morning light splinters through the half-boarded empty window frame, casting lines of light across them. Despite having a new set of holes in her clothes, Erica looks none the worse for the wear. From what he can see, the wound has completely closed. It'll probably still be sore for a few days, but thanks to Stiles she is not only alive but healthy again.  
Accepting the help of a teenage warlock with too much mouth and not enough fear had been hard at first, but now… well it was growing harder and harder to underestimate the young man.  
Especially when he'd come that close to losing one of his pack. He doesn't know what he would do if he'd lost her. Not with his pack so fledgling and small. It's terrifying. Because even though he knows he'll do anything to protect them, this time he wasn't enough on his own. It's a bitter admission. But, he reminds himself, lone wolves - even alphas - never last long on their own. Maybe accepting this help adds to his pack's strength. He resolves to make sure Stiles has whatever he needs to keep on doing… Stiles. 

It's early still. The sun's only been up an hour or so. He doesn't disturb them, leaving his comforting alpha-scented bed to them and heading for the couch, laying down on the worn second hand leather. It too is comforting; it smells like his pack - like everyone, not just his betas. Despite his scowling they've taken to hosting movie nights, crowding together on the couch as they watch an absurd variety of movies on someone's laptop. He doesn't join them. He doesn't know how. Instead he keeps watch as they invade his house. 

He grumbles every week, but he can't begrudge them their decision to dig in and demand the house yield a sense of family again. It's not something he knows how to do himself, but it doesn't stop them. And he doesn't stop them. Sometimes he even works on the house in anticipation of their arrival. It's a slow process, but noticeable progress has been made. There's a functioning sink and toilet now near the front door. A refrigerator to house the ubiquitous snacks. The holes in the living-room walls have been repaired to keep out the worst of the cold. He doesn't even mind that he's always finding bits of popcorn Erica keeps throwing at everyone, or the way Stiles talks right through every movie, or the holes that appear in the couch after Scott and Isaac have another impromptu wrestling-match that Boyd always nonsensically somehow ends up the victor of. Because it's good. Because maybe part of him hopes that one day it won't be a place where home and family are used in a _past-tense_ sort of way. 

He'll never admit it aloud, but they're terribly precious to him, his pack and those nights. He wonders how much of those he has Stiles to thank for as well. As he settles in on the soft leather he pulls one of the pillows over to prop under his head and closes his eyes. Absently, he rubs his thumb against the corduroy piping edging the square pillow. He tries not to think about what it means that he'd implicitly chosen the same pillow Stiles had fallen asleep on last movie night.


	5. Chapter 5

The autumn leaves kick up in airy swirls in the wake of the growling car. It takes them a long time to settle. It takes Stiles longer.

After standing for a long moment staring at the disappearing black silhouette of the Camaro, Stiles starts walking again instead of going inside. He has a lot to plan. A lot to think about. Besides, he feels the need to move, to get away from home. His Dad isn't there anymore, sure, but he just… he needs to be totally on his own for a few hours. 

So he walks, listening to the wind that whispers over his cheeks and through his clothes. Driving doesn't seem wise - even if his Dad hadn't already demanded he hand over his keys. He's too light headed to risk it for a whim really. Sure, walking is hard too, weakened as he is, but it's something he can settle into, the smooth steady stride along the pavement. He soaks up the faint rays of sunlight that peek through the clouds. Once or twice he goes out of his way to crunch a particularly inviting leaf. 

That morning had started shakily. He hadn't been able to sleep very long after crawling back into bed. Hunger and pain had woken him, drawing him first to the medicine cabinet for some form of analgesic, then down to the kitchen for sustenance. 

His Dad, however, had still been sitting there where he'd left him, apparently mulling everything over in awful silence.   
That was exactly what Stiles had been afraid of. Not upset or anger or whatever, but that closed-down and shaken look. Drained. Hopeless. It was the look he got after a rough week when he didn't think Stiles was watching. The look he'd had for months after...

The sight of Stiles mechanically sitting down across from him to shovel fork-fulls of quickly-scrambled eggs into his mouth had set off a barrage of questions and prodding. Between the lack of sleep and the discomfort caused by his injuries, Stiles had barely been able to keep a rein on his temper. The questions had only added pressure to an already edgy situation. Eventually he'd ended up storming out when his Dad had shown an inclination to stay home from work to watch over him and pester him with more questions - which was something neither of them could handle right then. 

In Stiles's opinion his dad needed the familiar trappings of his work to ground him in the face of the supernatural insanity around him. And then time to sleep on it. Stiles would put the time alone to good use planning his strategies for making the transition easier on his dad. 

Of course, Derek being outside his house hadn't been part of his plan. In fact, he'd felt distinctly off-balance at the sight of him. But the ride had soothed his temper and his aches, letting the pills finally kick in. That itself was surprising enough. He'd been left with a vague sense of question and awareness.

But it's not something he's going to figure out right then, he decides, continuing down the road and shrugging off thoughts of Derek. He digs his phone out of his pocket, glancing at the screen. Scott still hasn't answered his texts, which tells Stiles that he's probably still sleeping after an exciting night of… _sleeping_. With Allison. Even though she'd have to be sneaking in at her house or Lydia's by now so she could pretend to get ready for school in a few hours. 

Melissa was out of town for a long weekend for a mandatory nursing conference. His Dad said he'd do the rounds and check on Scott, but seriously, if they could get it on at the Argents' place without getting caught, then they could definitely get away with it at Scott's. 

Still, Stiles is a little miffed that Scott has put his phone on vibrate or whatever. He'd missed their extra midnight patrol of the cemetery, which was kind-of _their route_. After all, an homage to Buffy is not something to take lightly. 

He scowls at the sidewalk as he scuffs his sneakers over the edge of a curb and drops down to cross the street. Ok, so maybe alone-time with Allison was totally worth skipping a stupid patrol with your best friend for, but Scott had also missed the fast-paced chase the disturbance at the cemetery had led to, and had missed being there to see Stiles kick ass saving Erica's life. It's more than a little disappointing. 

He tugs the collar of his over-shirt closer at his neck, buttoning another couple buttons higher against the wind that gusts as he turns the corner onto main street. Despite the early hour, there are quite a few people out and about. His shoulders hunch reflexively and he keeps his gaze to himself. Normally he'd enjoy the noise and bustle of people going about their mornings, but today… he feels oddly vulnerable today. Maybe it's just because he's feeling weak.

He glances at the little coffee shop on the corner with it's little people-watching patio. One of his favorite places, but it is way beyond what he can handle right then. Any other day he might stop by the sheriff's station and harass the deputies for a while. But not today. Especially not since he has a feeling he going to be playing truant even though his senior schedule means he doesn't have to get there till 10. That leaves only one option on his regular-places-list; the basement of the city library. 

He'd found the place when digging up old records on Beacon Hills for a social studies project. Not that the teacher had actually _meant_ for him to do an exposé on the town's founding fathers, but the look on Whittemore's face had been priceless… he snorts at the memory as he turns up the street past the courthouse on his way to the library.

It turns out it is the only place in town he can reach true quiet. It's like the heavy, forgotten old books soak up the sounds and energies around him. Since he's begun practicing magic, some of his perpetual distractibility makes sense. He understands now why he's always chasing hints of energies on lines of light and sound around him. Why he'd known something was special about Derek since the first moment he'd seen him. Why there are certain places he can't stand still in, like the hospital or the train station. He's never told anyone about the library, greedily soaking up the silence in secret. Not that he thought it would matter to anyone else, but… well, it was _his_.

Even as he opens the door to the library, the familiar and comforting scent of old books is there, pulling him in. The fixtures are all old brass, and the wood shelves of the bookcases are a honeyed oak that's darkened with age. It's a relatively small place without many new books lately. It had definitely been built in better economic times with its high ceilings and polished crown molding towering over tall shelves. There's a section with a bunch of out of date computers. A little space for kids to play and children's books. It's mostly empty this early, his soft footsteps still seeming loud on the marble entryway. He breathes deep as he nods to the librarian and wends his way through the stacks to reach the long staircase leading down. 

At the top of the stairs his intention is to study. The pack is going to look to him for his magic and he can't let them down. Plus he especially wants to see what the books have to say about uses for things robbed from gravesites. That was what had started this whole snafu in the first place, after all. 

At the _top_ of the stairs he intends to work. By the time he reaches the bottom he ends up stumbling straight for the old wing-back chair hidden in a corner of the basement. Now that the fresh air and slow and steady walking pace has been interrupted his body is rebelling. He has never felt so tired, so drained, and yet his heart is running in his chest fast and light. And that's not even considering the way it's all making his breakfast sit in his stomach. As he curls up in the chair a pang of worry hits him. It had been his first really big spell after all. What if he had pushed himself too hard? What if he'd-

"Shit," he mumbles, feeling the edges of panic tugging at him. He takes a few calming breaths and tries to relax before the worry can get a hold on him. He hasn't had a panic attack for years, but the fear of having one is still in the back of his mind. 

"It's just the blood loss," he says to himself as though the words will make it true. And it's a valid point after all, so that salves some of his worry. Sitting down helps too, letting his heart take it a little easier pumping his depleted supplies around. Plus the fact that it is all for a good reason goes a long way to making him feel better. Because no matter what happens to him now, Erica is _alive_.

And - and this was a really big 'and' - his first big spell had _worked_. He grins at himself as he settles his feet on the floor and his shoulders relax deeper into the faded armchair. Despite the aches and pains it feels damn good not to be just the useless human around the pack. Ever since he'd started researching the spells he'd felt different. More focused. More worthwhile. 

Of course, he hadn't known for sure that the spell would work the first try, considering it had been put together by his makeshift magic knowledge and a hell of a lot of positive thinking. But he works hard in his research, and he believes in the things he works out -he has to. His friends' lives occasionally depend on it. And that's why even though he's only had time to work out a few spells, the ones he has chosen have his friends' continued survival in mind. The poison-siphoning spell had been one of the first he'd sussed out, given his experience with Derek and the wolf's-bane bullet. It was also one of the ones he had the most confidence in. The rough and fast blood magic used for healing like that, for drawing out poisons… to him it makes sense; take the fresh clean blood and spill it, so the poison has a vector that remains outside of anyone it could harm. 

That was what he'd been able to figure out from the different books anyway. He'd been working pretty hard lately studying up on the various sources of occult information, but it never seemed like any one of them explained _any_ spell properly, and that was assuming he'd actually even found a real one in his searches and not just some new-age nonsense. Eventually he'd discovered that when he cross-referenced different magical traditions, there were threads of truth, of confluence. And it had _worked_! Erica was going to be fine. 

Some days it blows his mind that _any_ of it is real. He'll catch himself in the middle of something and just have to give himself a shake, and maybe a little wake-up-if-you're-dreaming pinch (and he tries _really_ hard not to think about Buffy season 6 episode 17). Some days he misses getting to spend his afternoons goofing off with Scott. Nowadays his best friend goes off with Allison, leaving him to find ways to fill his time, such as driving out to neighboring towns in search of old books. And he loves Allison, like 90% of the time. But…   
He sighs. But things change. That lesson he'd learned a long time ago. Life doesn't stay the same, and the unexpected...

The unexpected is a fact of life.   
Like that ride with Derek. Both rides, actually. He makes a soft sound, tipping his head back against the chair and closing his eyes. Talk about unexpected. He curls his thighs up to his chest, setting his arms loosely across his knees. Things had been fine when his attraction to the other man had been a simple appreciation for someone completely out of reach. He's used to those; just something to secretly amuse yourself with. Idle fantasies that don't even make you nervous or stare awkwardly or feel like hyperventilating at the sight of them because it is so absurd it isn't even a possibility. 

But, he reminds himself with a mirthless laugh, things change. He scrubs his fingers over his closed eyelids and then curls his arms over his chest, tipping his face against the wing of the chair with a soft sigh. Now that he's had a taste of what it could be like if Derek paid attention to him, and _just_ him… it's suddenly dangerous. The way he'd held Stiles like he was something precious, touching him so gently as he dressed his wounds. The way he smells up close, all wild and earthy and masculine… he shivers at the memories, letting out a tight breath. Maybe it's still ridiculous, but it's not… _distant_ anymore. Or secret, for that matter, because when Derek had carried him home he was fairly certain that in his weakened state he'd nuzzled the alpha's shoulder while stroking his chest, and then later stared at his mouth for an inappropriately long amount of time. 

Yeah, he has enough impulse-control issues _without_ the woozy-from-blood-loss thing adding into the mix. Next time he is definitely going to figure out how to use less blood. He squints into the dim light towards the shelf he knows contains one of the books he's been using. It doesn't have everything, not by a long shot, but it's the one that makes the most sense to him most of the time. He starts to rise to go collect the text but he feels dizzy as he tries to get up. He sags back, sighing in frustration, but he decides to stay there and rest a while longer. It's damn frustrating being this weak. He sits back and mulls over some ideas. He's sure he can figure out a way to make it work without using so much of his _own_ blood… maybe another tattoo specific to removing poison to help him focus? What if the _pack_ got a tattoo that he could use to guide his healing? And then there's the mental image that has him sucking in a slow breath; of _Derek_ skin bearing ink of his design. Of course, that depended on what Derek thought of his tattoos. He hadn't been able to read the alpha's face, but…

He hums in frustration and closes his eyes again, unable to resist running over recent memories again. Derek's face leaning close to where Stiles's head is tucked against his shoulder, checking on him, eyes flashing crimson. Derek glancing at him with curious eyes at his bared chest. And then, worst of all, Derek's hands on his bare abdomen, undoing his belt and tugging his jeans off and… Yeah. He's definitely fucked in a sadly non-literal sense. He has to focus hard on, well, not getting hard in the middle of the library. Eventually his closed eyes start to feel terribly heavy, and the chair is keeping his body-heat close… maybe he'll just rest his eyes for a minute before...

 

When he wakes up, it's with a start that nearly has him falling out of the chair. The head library clerk is standing a few feet away, a soft smile on her wrinkled face. 

"Closing time Stiles," she repeats quietly. She waits a moment till he focuses on her and blinks a few times. When he nods his understanding she steps away, going back to her closing duties. To his dismay, most of the day has passed. In fact, he can see through the tiny basement windows that it's almost dark. 

He still feels woozy when he stands. He makes a disgruntled noise as he stretches. Fat lot of good the nap had done - and he hadn't even gotten any studying in. As he starts walking out towards the stairs, he casts a chagrinned glance towards the shelf where the tome lives.

The book is gone.

He jerks to a halt, then scrambles over, looking frantically around the area. All that's left is the faded outline of dust from where the book usually sits.

He stumbles slightly, gripping the edge of the shelf as he surveys the area. It's not there, or on any of the nearby shelves. For most books he might think that someone has just checked it out (despite its deceptively mundane title). He knows that's not the case; it's an archived book, one that isn't supposed to be taken from the basement.

"No. No, no, no! No! Damnit!" he curses bitterly under his breath, leaning on splayed palms on the old wood shelf. He should have just stolen the damn thing back when he'd first found it, but _nooo_ he'd had to go and be all _law-abiding_ for once. Groaning in frustration he turns, pacing a step or two up the aisle, thinking. How long had it been since he'd been there last? Who else might know about it? He looks around for Mrs. Rosenthal but she's already gone back upstairs.

His stomach growls and he feels slightly lightheaded in the face of the flagging shot of adrenaline rushing through him at the realization of the book's absence. He'll have to ask her about it tomorrow. If he's lucky, it's just been taken for cleaning or something.

"Right," he mutters to himself with a mirthless laugh. "You been noticing anything, _particular_ about our luck these days?" he half-quotes in self-deprecating humor as he drags himself up the steps and though the stacks out towards the setting sun. As he exits he waves at Mrs. Rosenthal who locks the door behind him. The sign is already turned to closed. Even later than he'd thought then.

At least he's feeling better on the walk home. The rest had done _some_ good after all. The wind is still going strong enough to set his teeth chattering, but his brisk walking pace helps. The sun is just dipping below the horizon, the temperature of the air dropping rapidly without it. By the time he gets home he's slipped into an easy jog to stay warm.

He bangs the front door open, rubbing his hands eagerly. Food would be an excellent idea right about then, he decides. But he jerks to a stop when he sees the unexpected sight of Derek standing in his kitchen. He's even more confused by the way Derek's eyes flick over him in relief and the rush of excitement the sight sparks low in his belly. Seeing Derek there, in his house, not clamoring through his window and hiding in his bedroom like an illicit intruder but coming through the kitchen door like a… friend... 

Hah - as if those words come close to describing the taut thread of awareness that stretches between them. He gazes at Derek, transfixed, thoughts and sounds getting tangled up in his head and leaving him with his lips half-pursed before he gives up and goes for simple.

"Hi," he murmurs, sliding forward a step.

His dad leans his head around the door frame, jerking Stiles to a halt once more. 

"Hi son," the Sheriff says, still in uniform. His voice is all business, though there's enough warmth in his eyes to soothe the spike of concern that rose in Stiles's throat. He tugs his phone out of his pocket, checking the screen. There are like ten notifications. He winces.

"Hi Dad. What's, uh, what's going on?" he asks, walking forward more cautiously and flicking his chin at Derek in question.

"I asked him to meet us here. There's…," he frowns, shaking his head incredulously, as though he can't believe what he's about to say. He sighs and sits back in his chair as Stiles comes to stand next to Derek. 

"Something happened and I want to run by you two because it might be something… strange."

Stiles looks at Derek, whose eyebrows are steadily climbing. He casts an unreadable glance at Stiles as the Sheriff sighs again and looks down at his hands.

"And I think I might need your help."


	6. Chapter 6

"Oh my god, this is so weird," Stiles mutters. "This is weird, right?"

Derek casts a wry glance at him as they step into the crime scene area at the Sheriff's direction, ducking under the line of police tape. It's not the first time either of them has crossed into a police line, but it's certainly the first time they've done so at the Sheriff's behest.

Most of the deputies have been sent home since there's no one to intercept or pursue. Just one lone watchman who the Sheriff had sent on a coffee break upon arriving. Coming in through the second set of outer doors they walk down an empty hallway. One door has more police tape across it. The rest of the hallway past it also has a line of police caution tape stretched across it. Presumably to ward off internal trespassers, though this floor of the hospital is quiet in the evening especially since there are no major traumas headed this way as a result of dispatch redirecting after the break-in.

"Now remember-,"

"Don't step in the blood, don't knock anything over, and for the love of batman don't touch anything," Stiles rattles off.

The Sheriff eyes him for a moment, then opens the door to the lab.

"And absolutely no Scooby references," Derek mutters behind Stiles as they duck under the tape. Stiles snickers, but turns to Derek as they enter, shaking his head and already at risk of stepping in the blood. Derek grabs his waist and nudges him sideways till he bypasses the pool of viscous red, still intent on talking.

"Ohh but come _on_ , even _you_ have to admit that third-order meta Buffy-the-vampire-slayer Scooby-gang homage style references are too good to pass up!"

Derek sends him a withering look. "I have no idea what you just said."

Stiles heaves a sigh and turns to his dad, who is already giving him a pained look. "Do you see what I have to work with?" he says to his father, throwing up his arms. "Philistines!"

The sheriff just puts a hand to his forehead, though Derek can see the edge of a grin hiding itself behind his wrist.

"I mean, how could you not appreciate the epic irony-,"

"Will you shut up a second, Willow?" Derek snaps, though with little heat behind his words. "I'm trying to concentrate."

Stiles gapes at him, completely incredulous. "You-," 

"What else do you think we watched in high school?" he says, smirking at the look on Stiles's face. Like a family that included teenage werewolves _wouldn't_ watch Buffy? Well, ok, his mom had thought it was pretty silly. But it's the truth. Plus revealing it has worked. Stiles is finally stunned silent for the moment as he mulls the rhetorical question over.

He closes his eyes and concentrates his senses. The scent of spilled blood hits him in the face, blunt and stale and from wildly varied sources. But, he decides with a frown, there's not much else besides the smells of antiseptics and sterile packaging. He takes another slower breath, but he gets nothing else but a nose-full of human. The Sheriff smells like Lever-2000 and whiskey and gun oil, and Stiles like spices and tree roots - no, old books, and ash. The ash smell is stronger than usual though, and he frowns. But he can't pick any of the additional traces up. He opens his eyes eventually, and shakes his head at Stiles. 

Several of the blood bags are strewn haphazardly across the floor, emptied and each with a pair of twin punctures. More are just plain missing. Not much else in the room has been touched. Stiles makes a face at him. He purses his lips in agreement. Definitely something… _hinky_ , as Stiles would say.

The Sheriff turns to look at them, face pulled slightly in a preemptive grimace. He clears his throat awkwardly and gestures with the hand that had been rubbing at his chin. "So… what?" he hesitates, forcing out the next word like it hurts to say it, "Vampires?"

Derek sighs, making a face. "Smash and grab of a blood supply would fit a roving group of vamps, but…"

Stiles shakes his head in agreement with the negative word, pacing in a tiny loop, hands on his hips as he inspects the damage.

"But?" his Dad prompts.

"I don't smell any vampires. And you have a bigger problem than that."

"Bigger problems than vampires?" the Sheriff says with a faint laugh of disbelief.

"Than a group of transients? Yeah," Stiles says with a snort. "They're small stuff. Drunk-and-disorderlys," he says, grinning at his analogy.

Derek casts a sardonic but amused look at him and nods in agreement. "Even if it were vampires, you'd only find insignificant numbers around here. This is Were territory. There're no camarillas for a long ways in any direction. And they like to stay out of trouble anyway." 

"Besides, vampires don't like California," Stiles chimes in.

"What?" he adds at his father's pained expression, grinning cheekily back at him. "It's too spread out. They like compact cities with a good nightlife. Las Vegas too," he explains, like he can't wait to tell his dad all the tidbits he's been picking up the last couple years.

Derek knows the feeling. He'd felt that way when he'd turned the betas, though he hadn't known what to do with the feeling. They'd been too busy feeling it all to want to listen to him anyway. And… well he'd turned teenagers. That was something he had to live with.

"You're… of course you're serious," the Sheriff mutters, shaking his head. 

"So what can you tell me about my bigger problems?" the Sheriff asks wearily.

He hesitates and glances at Stiles, who is gnawing on his lip. He shrugs as if to say _cat's out of the bag_. Derek casts his eyes skyward on a sigh. 

"There were some... grave desecrations," he says finally. "A few times in the past week."

The Sheriff looks taken aback, eyes going distant for a brief moment as he runs back over his memories. "Nothing was ever reported."

"That's because they're not amateurs," Stiles says, and Derek nods in agreement.

"Careful cutting of the sod so the disturbance isn't obvious. Use of less well-tended markers so there's less of a chance it'll be noticed," Derek elucidates.

The Sheriff's features are pinched as he scrubs a hand over his mouth in a gesture reminiscent of his son. He paces a step away, mulling it over, then returns to them.

The Sheriff sighs. "You said the graves were disturbed a couple of times?"

"At least," Derek says. "We don't know if there were more. It was only luck that we found it in the first place."

"Hey," Stiles blurts indignantly. Derek just turns an amused look on him, raising an eyebrow.

Stiles folds his arms across his chest and then scowls. "Ok yeah, it was mostly luck."

"And just how did you find out about the cemetery in the first place?" the sheriff asks frowning, voice firming like it's an interrogation.

Stiles casts a plaintive glance at Derek. Derek gives him a sardonic look and shrugs. _Cat's out of the bag_.  
He glares in response, but his amber eyes are dancing in amusement. 

"Well?" his dad asks again, looking at his son. 

He makes a face and lets out a ragged sigh. "I noticed something seemed off when we were on patrol Friday night, so we came back last night to get a better look," he says indicating Derek with his chin and judiciously leaving Scott out of his patrol and leaving last night's 'we' vague.

His father pinches the bridge of his nose. "So now you're telling me you patrol Beacon Hills at night? What, out of the goodness of your hearts?" he asks sarcastically, gesturing illustratively with a hand from his heart. His eyes fall on Derek, full of suspicion. Once a suspect… 

Derek's face is as grim as his voice when he replies. "Believe me, it's nothing so noble. It's self preservation. If hunters or other supernaturals show up on Hale territory, it's... not good. For anyone."

Stiles snorts derisively. "That's one hell of an understatement."

Derek raises an eyebrow at him but doesn't disagree.

"And you say it's serious? These grave runs?"

Stiles makes a face, "Dad, have you ever heard of anything having to do with graves that wasn't _deadly serious_?"

The Sheriff casts another pained look at his son. Derek hides a smirk behind his hand.

"Oh my god have a sense of humor please," Stiles groans, throwing his arms out wildly and stomping away. 

That just earns him a look from his Dad that says _not in the job description_. 

But all joking aside, Stiles is right. Derek sighs. "When we traced them from the disturbed ground to a warehouse nearby we underestimated them. They came armed for Were," he says, using a malapropism he'd heard a number of times growing up. "They carry poisoned bullets designed to kill werewolves, and I've never heard of anything good coming from things stolen from graves. So yeah. I would say it was pretty serious."

The Sheriff blows out his lips on a sigh, eyebrows raised as he settles his hands on his waist. "You traced them?"

Derek purses his lips. "Yeah. But they shot Erica. Tending to her was priority. I have no idea what happened to the targets. The trail was dead when we checked today."

The Sheriff sighs and turns away, crossing his arms as he files the information away. He shakes his head as he paces, then his eyes turn on Stiles in sudden evaluation, like he'd just realized that his son had been in the middle of a firefight. Stiles is standing there, looking back at him, hands tucked into his pockets.

"And then you...," the Sheriff begins, glancing down at Stiles's bandaged arms though the dressings are hidden beneath his shirt.

"Pulled the poison? Yeah," Stiles says quietly, all teasing set aside for the moment. The steady confidence and strength in his stance combined with the serious look of acknowledgement on his face ages him beyond his years. 

The Sheriff turns to look back at the crime scene, hands on hips. He looks almost nauseous. He takes a few slow, steadying breaths, as though trying to ground himself to a reality that shouldn't be real. He's only had a day to process everything after all. Stiles looks at him, concern and uncertainty edging onto his features. He tugs at the edge of a bandage that's rubbing against his sleeve and glances over at Derek, offering him a weak smile. Like he's looking to Derek for comfort. Derek's not sure how to do anything but stand there and hold his gaze until Stiles breaks it.

Eventually his dad turns around, looking a little more steady. "So, not vampires. But probably supernatural?"

Stiles and Derek both nod. But that's about all they've determined. They stand in silence, staring at the room, looking for the possibility of missed details. 

"You could write it up as probable prank material," Stiles offers. "I'm sure we could fake a prank that would make that plausible."

His father casts a pained look over his shoulder at his son.

"What? It's better than putting down 'demonic rituals'," he says, waving his hands as he intones the last two words ominously. "Ah. Not that I think it's _actually_ demonic rituals. Exactly," he adds in a rush, which does little to soothe the weary look his father casts at the ceiling.

"Okay, is there anything else to see here?" he asks, looking at Derek like he's some sort of expert. Which he supposes he is, in a way. He shakes his head briefly. Stiles echoes the gesture.

"All right. Let's head on out."

Derek leads the way out of the crime scene, glad to get away from the overpowering blood scents and the smell of hospital chemicals. The Sheriff locks the door again and then heads off back towards the parking lot.

"Ok, let's think about this top-down for a while. I mean, what all needs blood?" Stiles asks the air as they walk down the corridor and step out into the night. "We've got vampires of course. There's people of the witch-y variety that might use blood for stuff."

The Sheriff has his head tilted slightly back towards them like he's listening as he leads the way away from the hospital.  
He tugs at his lower lip as he thinks, eyes darting around like he's re-reading his stack of tomes and notes and references. "… ghouls maybe?"

Derek makes a face at him, eyebrows drawn up and pinched. "Ghouls?"

"I don't know. They seem blood-sucky or something."

"No."

"Is that 'no because I know for a fact that ghouls don't suck blood' or is that a 'no I don't think it's ghouls because they smell'?" 

Derek shakes his head. Stiles skips a step sideways, shaking his hands as he adds, "Ooh, or, third option - 'I'm the Alpha and my favorite word is no'."

Derek glares at him. But Stiles is just smirking back, completely un-cowed. Derek hasn't been able to unnerve him for about a year now. It's quite possibly one of the best things that's happened to Derek in recent history. Not that he'd ever admit it.

Then his eyes light up. "Oh, I know! Zombies! They're totally after living flesh and stuff."

Derek rolls his eyes. "No."

"I mean, it _could_ be zombies," Stiles says. 

"No."

"No come on I'm not saying it's _plausible_ , I'm just saying it's _possible_ ," he insists, eyes wide as he gestures for emphasis, walking sideways beside Derek.

"No it isn't. It's not possible," he says, shaking his head.

"Oh my god why must you jinx us? Seriously? Don't you know better? Look, just admit it, it's _possible_ , just like I know it's _possible_ for Derek Hale to smile, but I've never actually seen it."

Derek glares at him.

"See? Hopeless," Stiles mutters facetiously.

The Sheriff just leads the way back to the patrol car, shaking his head. He unlocks it, opening the doors to the back for them. Derek's still surprised when Stiles gets into the back of the car with him instead of riding up with his father.

"Ooh, what about Chupacabras?"

Derek just groans, sitting back in the molded plastic seat, turning away and trying to find an angle where the divot for handcuffed hands didn't dig into his spine in some way.

"Fine. But when they come and eat your face, don't say I didn't think of it."

For a while they ride in silence, street lights flashing by and the wind whipping and brushing against the car as it cut through the air. He closes his eyes and tries to lean back, though he's just a bit too tall to fit comfortably. He tries not to think about the fact that he's basically in a small cage. Because acknowledging that would not be good. It's tugging at his peripheral senses as it is. The fact that Stiles is there makes it a little less cage-like, lets him relax just a bit. 

He liked riding in the jeep more than other cars. It was the only one he really tolerated when given the choice. Except for the Camaro, of course. That was his territory, after all. But the jeep had its high headroom and flimsy roof that Derek could claw through with no trouble at all if push came to shove. 

When he opens his eyes he catches Stiles looking at him in his peripheral vision, but when he turns a questioning gaze on him he looks away abruptly, glancing up at the wire mesh dividing the halves of the cruiser. He reaches up and pokes a finger at it, tracing the curved bits of metal like it's suddenly very fascinating, cheeks coloring faintly. 

The teen very studiously does not look back at him, so Derek takes the opportunity to look his fill. It isn't something he's really had a chance to do, at least not this close, not without life-and-death situations demanding their immediate attention. He takes in the small details. The constellation of moles on his cheek and throat, the way his eyelashes flit around over his ever-moving eyes. The way the hair just behind his ear doesn't quite grow the same direction. It's rare to be this close together without him having to attend to driving. He can't look with the others around without someone noticing. Although. He casts a glance up to the rearview mirror and finds the Sheriff's eyes on him, cool and considering. 

He turns his head, deciding it is a good time to adjust his gaze out to the dark world passing outside the window as they drive back towards the Stilinski home. He shifts, trying to find a slightly more comfortable position in the back of a car designed with basically the opposite of comfort in mind. 

When they pull in to the Stilinski house, Derek tugs at the door handle. Stiles snickers under his breath when it doesn't work, waiting patiently. Derek just thinks it means he's spent way too much time in the back of his dad's cruiser. Probably for good reason. The Sheriff steps out and tugs the door open, and Derek starts to get out. Stiles is already scooting across the back seat, bumping into him as he gets out, then he clambers out onto the grass behind Derek like he thinks he'll shut the door on him and lock him in just for fun.

Which… if he'd thought of it… 

He gazes down at the car door as he shuts it, a small smirk crossing his mouth. 

"You want a cup of coffee son?" the Sheriff asks.

It takes a second or two of silence for Derek to realize that he's talking to him and not his actual son who'd been walking towards him. He looks at the warm glow of the porch-light and the gentle smile of invitation on the Sheriffs face. The desire to go in pulls hard at his chest. He takes a step back.

"I don't…," _don't want to leave_ , he thinks, words faltering. _don't know how to stay_. Derek hesitates, glancing at Stiles who is looking back at him with an unreadable look. 

Stiles takes a half-step towards him and when Derek's eyes track back over to the Sheriff, he looks over his shoulder too, lips parting over words that don't quite come out. Instead he just kind-of rubs at the sleeve of his shirt. 

The Sheriff gives his son a considering look. Then, with a faintly bittersweet, faintly tired look on his face he pats him on the shoulder and turns and walks into the house, leaving them alone. It's a familiar quiet, the strangeness of a silent neighborhood late at night. The faint hiss of sprinklers overwatering someone's lawn down the street. The smell of manicured grass. But it's completely foreign at the same time. 

_I don't belong here._

But it would be rude to just turn and walk away. Plus. Stiles probably wouldn't let him even if he tried. He was persistent like that. Stiles steps closer, coming back down the grass till he's standing in front of Derek, tugging idly at his sleeves. He swallows as he glances up to meet Derek's eyes. He seems to struggle over the words, but eventually he blurts out two.

"Don't go." He looks about as surprised as Derek feels at the words. 

Derek stares at him, feeling his face draw down into a frown that was born more of his conflicting emotions and confusion than anything else. Not that knowing it means his face does anything different at his behest.

"I mean. I know you're probably tired and ready to go home, but... You can come in. If you want. My dad makes horrible coffee but it's…" His cheeks flush as he looks somewhere in the vicinity of Derek's shoulder, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck. He clears his throat and adds belatedly, "It's warm." 

It's probably cold out. He hasn't noticed, despite the wind rippling through his hair. Stiles is probably cold, just wearing that flannel shirt over the long-sleeved tee still. Instinctively he steps forward slightly, placing his body between the line of the wind and Stiles's trim form. 

Stiles makes a soft sound as the wind stops, then gazes up at him with a smile. Derek opens his mouth to refuse, but instead finds himself saying, "Okay."  
He blinks, turning his head to scowl at the ground incredulously for a moment before turning the scowl back on Stiles.

Stiles swallows again, eyes wide like he doesn't believe it either, then he steps back. "Okay."

He turns and leads the way back up to the house, and Derek follows. When they get inside the house is quiet save the hiss and gurgle of the coffee pot in the kitchen. The Sheriff glances up as they come in and steps away from the coffee maker into the hallway towards them. He looks between them a moment as he nears.

"You know, I think I'm about worn out for today," he says, not actually managing to sound that worn out. "But you should sit and have a cup of coffee before you drive home, Derek."

Derek blanches, stuck on his words, then manages a nod and, "Thanks, I will."

The Sheriff looks him firmly in the eye for a moment, then glances at both of them as he gives them a nod. Then he turns up the stairs, heading for his room. 

It's not at all lost on Derek that the Sheriff seems to be giving him implicit permission to… well he's not exactly sure, maybe he's just showing him that he's trusting him to be a guest, even now knowing what he is. But… well, to have some mostly-private time with his son seems to be part of it too. Which is almost too overwhelming to really fathom. 

But when he looks at said son, the permission seems to be lost on him. He's too busy biting his lips, holding back laughter. "You didn't drive, did you?"

Surprised, Derek feels a grin tugging at his lips. "No."

"Come on," Stiles says, gesturing with his chin towards the kitchen instead of bothering to take his hands out of his pockets like he's still cold maybe. It makes Derek want to slip his arms around him and share his warmth, which is a dangerous thought, so he puts his hands in his pockets too.

They stand for a few minutes, sort-of shoulder to shoulder, just staring at the coffee pot while it finishes brewing. 

"Thanks," Stiles says abruptly.

Derek looks at him, confused. 

"For, you know, for helping my Dad."

Derek blinks at him, lips parting to say something, but he doesn't know what. So he shrugs a shoulder and nods firmly, frowning at the coffee pot as it starts to sputter.

Stiles doesn't wait for it to finish. He just reaches up to a cabinet and pulls down two mugs, then pulls the carafe out of the slot to pour, drops falling to the hot plate at the bottom and snapping into a sizzle. He splashes the dark liquid into the mugs and hands one to Derek before turning eagerly to his own.

He makes such a sound of pleasure as he brings the mug up to his lips that Derek has to consciously avoid imagining what else could be done to elicit that sound. Still he can't stop the instinctive pull of scent he breathes in, implicitly testing the air for arousal. He smells the spices and blood and old books he's used to smelling on Stiles.

"Have you been… have you used any more ash lately?" Derek asks, realizing that the ash scent has lessened now. Or maybe it's just being dampened by the coffee.

Stiles shrugs, "I mean, there was some redwood ash in the mix I used for Erica."

Derek nods slowly. "Maybe that was it."

Stiles looks over at him, eyebrows raised. "Was what?"

"You just… I smelled more ash. Today."

"Oh my god, seriously? I have to shower like three times a day around you guys," he says, groaning.

"No, I don't mean it like… I wasn't _trying_ to smell you," which doesn't sound any better, a point which Stiles clearly agrees with given the way his face is squishing up. The teen colors, burying his face in the mug of coffee.

"I mean when I was in the, when we were at the hospital. I was trying to isolate the smells," he says finally, scrubbing his hands over his face slowly.

"Oh," Stiles says softly. "Got it."

There's an awkward silence as Derek stares at his coffee in frustration. 

"You smell fine," he says gruffly. 

More than fine. He doesn't say that, though.

Stiles looks like he doesn't know what to say - and who could blame him? They both resume sipping the black liquid in their cups in silence. Stiles is right. The coffee is terrible; stale, and it's probably something with a jingle and national television commercials. But it's warm.

Eventually their mugs are empty, and so is the carafe. He's not sure how much time has passed, but it's getting late. He sets his mug on the counter and glances at Stiles before straightening his sleeve slightly where it's bunched at his elbow.

"I should go," he says abruptly, not sure of how to leave when he'd been invited in for coffee.

"It's pretty cold out. Can I drive you home?" Stiles asks.

Derek looks at him, slightly insulted and incredulous that Stiles still hasn't figured out that the cold doesn't bother him, at least not the way it does a thin human. But he realizes Stiles is looking back at him with… something. Not pity or duty or anything like what he'd expected. Something more like… hope? 

"Okay," he finds himself saying, mouth running ahead of him for the second time that night. He wonders if that's what Stiles feels like all the time or if his mind really just runs that fast.

"Cool. I'd better just…," he plunks his mug down and fishes out his cell phone, punching words into a text box, muttering the words out loud as he types them. "Driving Derek home. Will be back right after unless eaten by zombies which is totally possible but not plausible in any way. Love you."

Derek can't help it, he grins. "You know you're going to give him a heart attack," he admonishes, reaching for the phone to try and stop him from finishing and sending that horrible message to his already over-stressed father.

Stiles snatches it away and grins - then gapes up at him. "Oh my god, are you smiling?"

Derek pulls his mouth down at that but Stiles is edging towards him saying, "No you were totally legit not-creepily-seducing-someone-smiling! Do it again!" he demands, surging forward. 

He bats at Stiles's hands which are reaching up for his face, pushing at his cheeks, but Stiles persists, laughing as he tries to move Derek's face for him. It all promptly ends when Derek simply opens his mouth and plants his teeth into the meaty part of Stiles's hand instinctively. Not hard. Just enough to hold him. Derek realizes his heart is beating far faster than it ought to be.

"Or not," Stiles says, eyes wide over a reckless grin. 

He wants to kiss it off his face. He wants to lick the skin in his mouth. He wants… he _wants_.  
When he takes Stiles's wrist to pull his hand away and _take_ , his grip is too hard on damaged flesh and Stiles winces, crying out faintly. Derek lets him go immediately, jerking back. There's a sharp splash of fresh blood scenting the air as Stiles cradles his wrist, breathing slowly through his nose as Derek stands there, frozen.

"Shit. Sorry. Um. Just give me a second to…," Stiles says as he tries to shake it off. He just looks pale. Derek doesn't understand why Stiles is apologizing when it should be him saying those words. He should apologize. 

"You should go to bed," Derek says instead, and then turns and strides out of the kitchen door. The pounding of his heart, the knowledge that everything he touches eventually ends in pain... It's driving him out, driving him towards the night and the air and to run. To run. 

He doesn't know how to leave any other way.


	7. Chapter 7

Derek doesn't see Stiles for the rest of the week, which is to be expected since he and the others all have school.

But on Friday night, the pack coalesces over at Derek's place like usual. This time there won't be any movies to watch or popcorn to make. There's serious business in town. Dangerous business, and they need to protect themselves, each other, and Beacon Hills. Though really it seems like that's never not the case, to a certain extent anyway. 

Erica comes over straight after school, riding with Stiles since he's not playing lacrosse this week. He hangs back so that they let themselves in, though Stiles calls out to him tentatively. He's still annoyed with himself for the other night. He never should have allowed himself to be tempted into the Stilinskis' home. Never should have let himself touch Stiles like that. He'd brought only pain, as usual.

He lurks instead, watching from the second floor as they come inside. They end up curling up together on the couch to study. It simultaneously pleases Derek that his pack's scents will remain all over Stiles, and vice versa, and annoys him that... well. That _he_ can't be the one to stake the claim, for a number of reasons.

Isaac, Boyd, and Scott and Allison all come straight from lacrosse practice together, the boys not even bothering to shower. It's something that tends to happen whenever there's a decent excuse, werewolves not showering off good sweat. The stench of fear or fighting or anger is a different story. But good healthy sweat? They all secretly love it. It just makes the house smell more like pack. 

It doesn't take them long to settle in, dragging the least-broken chairs over to the couch one every inch of viable sofa space was spoken for. Only then does he come down. He tries not to feel the weight of Stiles's gaze on him.

"So we're all aware of the grave desecrations," he begins by saying. Watches as Erica squeezes Stiles's knee in affection and thanks. He smiles at her. Derek crushes the flare of jealousy at the act.

"But there have been some new developments. First off, you all need to know that due to the events of last weekend, the Sheriff has become aware of our existence."

The information ripples through the pack. Erica turns a concerned and guilty look on Stiles. Isaac looks a little frightened. 

Stiles clears his throat and adds, "Sorry guys. He knows about me, Derek, and Erica for certain. We haven't explicitly discussed the rest of you to minimize the... like, the overwhelm-factor, but he's... well figuring stuff out is kind-of his job, so...," he shrugs and looks vaguely uncomfortable.

Boyd sets a reassuring hand on his shoulder and he smiles up at him in thanks.

"On the upside, it means he's grown more willing to share questionable information," Derek says, glad that no one seems to be taking the news poorly, though Isaac looks less comfortable than the others, which is understandable. If anything the rest of them seem relieved. It certainly would make any potential tangles with the law a bit easier.

"Yeah, he actually took me and Derek to a crime scene at the hospital," Stiles chimes in, sounding slightly amazed still that he'd been included in it.

Scott, on the other hand, looks indignant as he gazes at Stiles. "Dude…" 

"Hey man, that's what you get for skipping our patrol," Stiles says, making a face and earning a pout from his best friend that turns slightly guilty almost immediately.

"So what does that have to do with us?" Isaac asks, arms still wrapped across his chest defensively.

"A few dozen pints of blood were taken," Derek replies. "And it looked suspicious." 

"Oh, plus a body also went missing from the morgue that same night," Stiles adds.

Derek looks sharply over at him in surprise. 

Stiles's face squishes up. "They didn't realize it until later since there was no damage or anything," he explains.

Derek frowns, not really sure why he feels disappointed. 

"Why would they need a body?" Scott asks, incredulously. Allison pets his arm, upset because he's upset. Sometimes he'd swear she was more wolf than not.

Stiles bites his lip, ignoring the question and looking at Derek. "My dad just told me about it today," he says, sounding apologetic.

Derek just glances away, not knowing what to do with the look on his face.

"Can't be good," Boyd says in reply to Scott's question. 

Isaac sighs heavily, eyebrows raising as he curls into a tighter ball. Erica's hand lands on the back of his neck and starts rubbing soothing circles.

"We looked around, but we couldn't find anything," Stiles says. "But we did pretty much rule out vampires."

"That's because it's never vampires," Boyd says, unimpressed.

Stiles rolls his eyes, "Yeah, but it's _something_ okay?"

"The only other lead is that there was definitely a smell of ash at the crime scene."

"So best guess is," Stiles begins, sounding a little tentative, but confident enough. "We're probably dealing with witches of some variety. Ones who know their poisons and know there's a pack in town. You all need to be extra careful. Like. I don't know. Don't eat anything you didn't prepare yourself, don't touch things you don't have to. Stuff like that."

"You think they're going to try and attack us?" Scott asks, looking grim.

Derek shakes his head, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees. "I don't think they actually know who we are, but if they're not just passing through, we're going to be found out eventually I'm sure."

The looks on faces are drawn as they exchange worried glances. But Erica just sticks her chin out. "So why don't we go after them first?"

Allison's eyebrows go up in agreement.

"We have no way to track them."

"I don't know. Stiles smells pretty… witchy," Boyd says, taking a short sniff as though to verify his point. The other wolves do as well, with varying levels of surprise and agreement. Stiles rolls his eyes.

"It's true, we can probably tell who they are up close by the smell of herbs and ash," Derek says. "But it's not lingering. Even though I smelled it at the hospital, I couldn't trace it elsewhere, not even past the door. So keep your noses open."

"I can maybe look through my family's stuff, see if there's info on... you know, whatever might be relevant," Allison offers shyly, and Scott beams at her. 

"Are there any details you guys can remember from the other night?" she asks, glancing tentatively at Erica as she tucks her hair behind her ear. "I'm sorry we weren't there."

"It was a woman who shot me. There wasn't anything that I noticed about her besides the gun," Erica says simply, like it doesn't matter. Which means it does.

Boyd nods. "There were at least three others with her. But they took off with the sacks at the first sign of us."

"Well wait, did the sacks smell like anything?" Stiles asks.

Boyd shakes his head. "Just ash. And we didn't pick any other scents up in the warehouse the next morning."

Stiles sighs in disappointment. "Okay, well I'll see what I can dig up."

"The rest of you keep your senses open. Be careful, okay? And stick together. I don't want any of you spending time alone if you can help it."

He waits until he gets acknowledgment from each of them, even Stiles, and with that, he ends the meeting early. 

When the gang piles out, Stiles lingers a little, gazing at Derek with an expression that looks like he wants to say something but either doesn't know how or doesn't want to do it in front of the others. Derek's more than fine with that. He gives him a nod as Erica slings her arm over his shoulders and nudges him along towards the door while Derek slips away into the back of the house.

And if he passes by the Stilinski home more than once on his patrol that night… well. He's just looking out for his pack.

 

-o0o-

 

When Stiles opens the front door, his dad is just coming down the stairs, dressed in his civilian clothes and looking freshly showered after a long day at work.

"Son," he says in greeting.

Stiles shuts the door behind him and says, "Hey dad."

He waits for him to pass so he can have a route up the stairs, but there's something different in the way his dad is looking at him. New. And a little haunted. 

Stiles offers him a sympathetic grimace. Now that it's not all crime scenes and urgent things like the Sheriff's used to dealing with, it seems the reality of werewolves has finally all sunk in. "Do you want to talk about it?" Stiles offers even though he really could stand to avoid it all.

His dad makes a face and shakes his head. "No, not really."

"Good! I'll see-"

"But," his father interrupts with a wry grimace. "It would probably be best if you and I had a chat."

Stiles sighs and sends his father a wry grin as he nods. Yeah, he didn't exactly disagree. He marches himself into the kitchen and over to the kitchen table. He's not really in the mood for the Stilinski tradition of standing around awkwardly if it's going to be a long chat. After a moment his father follows, then settles in his usual chair.

Stiles smiles faintly at him, tapping his thumbs against the table top softly. 

"How are you doing?" he asks, glancing down at Stiles's forearms.

"Okay. No, it's good, really. It's just that healing is always kind of tedious when most of your friends are werewolves."

His dad turns a questioning eyebrow on him.

"Werewolves, they heal really fast," he explains. "Like creepy terminator 2 fast." 

His dad frowns. "And I'm gathering that you see this a lot? That you've…" His frown sharpens. "Just how often are you on the mend?"

"It's not usually like this," Stiles tries. 

"Violent, bloody and illegal?" his Dad contends, brows high and unimpressed.

Stiles winces. "Well okay it's pretty much always like _that_. Just. My _magic_ isn't like this," he says indicating his arms. "It really isn't. Most of the time anyway. I just... It was an emergency."

"Erica," his Dad confirms. "How is she?"

"She's good. Her perfect everything is perfect again," he says, allowing himself a small smirk at the inside joke.

His father lifts a skeptical eyebrow at him but shakes his head, letting that topic go for another day. Because he has bigger things on his mind. "Magic."

"Yeah."

His dad shakes his head slowly, then stares down at his left hand, nudging the worn golden band with his thumb. He purses his lips as he blinks and tips his head back. He glances at Stiles.

"Wait here."

Then he gets up and disappears up the stairs. Stiles leans his chair back to see or listen or whatever but nothing revealing happens for a few minutes, and then his dad is coming back down the stairs, a carved wooden box in his hands.

It's old. And Stiles can immediately feel the lines of meaning wrapped around it on the edges of his perceptions. His father carries it over to him as he lets his chair fall forward again onto all four legs, then sets it on the table in front of him.

"This was your mother's."

Stiles looks at him with wide eyes, pulse spiking as that piece of information flashes through his consciousness, tangling into a hundred new questions throughout. The energy around the box is good. Almost familiar. He aches to touch it.

His dad sits down with a heavy sigh. "She… a long time ago she told me that it was a precious heirloom from her family. She told me that it was magic. I assumed at the time that she meant some sort of old tradition of superstition, not…," he gestures vaguely at nothing, but his meaning is clear nonetheless. "And she _let_ me assume that. But sometimes she would take it out, look at it like there was some secret inside. More often after you were born. She would just smile at me mysteriously any time I asked about it."

Stiles can't resist touching it any longer. He reaches for the dark, intricately-carved wood. Some of it has a deep red sheen that's almost purple, other parts are made of the deepest walnut. It's a beautiful contrast, and all natural wood, no staining. Just polished layers of oil-based varnish. It tingles as his fingertips make contact. It's not unpleasant, though he sucks in a sharp breath. The sensation isn't a blank one, either. It's layered, deep, sinking into his awareness the longer he touches the box. It's as though he can feel the energies of other people on it. People not unlike himself. Perhaps… in fact, even _probably_ his mother too. 

He blinks back tears as he runs his fingers over the woodwork. The symbols carved into it are almost familiar in places, derivations of old symbols of protection. He'll have to study them all. Perhaps build some of them into tattoo designs for himself. Perhaps a special one for his mother. He has so many questions his tongue is just jammed up against his teeth.

His father clears his throat as he continues. "Near the end she told me several times that it was important that I keep it for you, but not to give it to you too soon." He huffs a faint laugh, shaking his head. "And when I asked what she meant, she always smiled that annoying little secret smile of hers and said I would know when to give it to you. I guess she was right."

Stiles shares a bittersweet smile with him at the recollection. If certainly fit with his memories. Early on, growing up, whenever he'd had questions, the Sheriff had given him direct answers. His mom, on the other hand, had always given him more questions. 

Then his father had been the one to carry all the questions. His father glances at the box again, then frowns, sitting back in his chair. "So. Just how many of your friends _are_ werewolves," he says, pronouncing the last word carefully, like he still can't quite believe he's saying it genuinely.

Stiles screws up his face a moment as he counts. "Uh. Five. Or seven. Depending on how strictly you want to define 'friend'."

The sheriff sends him a look but Stiles rolls his eyes and explains, "Jackson's an asshole. And Peter's a psychopath."

"Peter Hale?" his father interjects, incredulously. "The missing coma patient."

"Yeah. He was the one who killed Laura Hale back when he was even more out of his gourd."

"Laura was killed by a… "

"Wolf," Stiles confirms. "See what I mean?"

"Stiles. I know you like to use unconventional definitions of even basic words, but how does he even fall _close_ to the range of friend?"

Stiles feels his face contort as he considers that one. "It's just… really complicated. And he was still pretty messed up back then. Okay he's _still_ pretty messed up, though he's adamant that brain-plasticity is going to fix that eventually. I'll believe it when I see it. But anyway, both of them are out of town trying to get their respective shit together so you don't need to worry about them right now."

His father shakes his head. "And the others?"

Stiles sighs, "I mean, it's not really my place to out them, but I told them you'd figure it out anyway so I might as well save you the trouble. But seriously dad, the more you know about this stuff, sometimes the more dangerous it is. That's why I didn't tell you before."

His father shakes his head. "I don't know, son. To me it seems like it would have been better if I'd known. For instance, how many of my cases had something to do with all of this?"

Stiles snorts. "So, so many. You know how I keep showing up inappropriately at crime scenes?"

The Sheriff stares at him, then casts his gaze skyward with a sigh. "The night club."

"Yup."

"And the janitor's murder."

Stiles nods. 

"The attack on Miss Martin?"

"Yeah. And the stuff with Matt. And why I kidnapped Jackson. And the movie store. Kate Argent. Honestly, there are so many more I can hardly remember," he says, ticking them off on his fingers.

His father lets out a tight breath. "So. I'm going to wager that Scott is part of this?"

"Yeah. He was turned back when all this started with Laura's murder. And Melissa knows, just FYI. She found out the hard way," he adds, still half-distracted by the box under his fingertips.

"What's the… no. Nevermind. I'll talk to her about that later," he says, shaking his head. He thinks a moment, then asks, "And Allison?"

"Actually no," he says with a laugh. "She comes from a family of hunters. People who believe it's their duty to keep the supernatural in check. Which maybe seems good in principle, but has some major flaws in practice. Like Victoria Argent trying to murder Scott. Or the 'guys from the other lacrosse team'," he says with mocking air quotes. "Oh, and don't forget Kate Argent murdering the Hales by setting that fire, knowingly including humans and innocent children," he says, face growing tight and anger twisting in his chest the way it always does when he thinks about that. 

This time, however, the tingling sensation in his fingers from the box surges at his emotion. He jerks his fingers back as the air sparks between his hands. A faint amber glow remains on them as he shakes them off, struggling to calm his emotions. Magical objects and unchecked emotions never mix well. He glances nervously at his father but the Sheriff isn't watching, just resting his forehead on the heels of his hands as he processes.

Stiles sighs as he kneads his hands together, making sure the energy gets soaked back up or dissipates into the air or something before setting a hand on his dad's shoulder in comfort. It's too much too fast he realizes. Time to wrap it up and give a straightforward answer instead of mimicking his mother's 'way' with answers. "Anyway, Lydia's human too, but she knows about it all. Isaac, Boyd, and Erica are wolves, part of Derek's pack. And that's everyone in the know."

"How do I…," his father begins, then falters. "You shouldn't have had to do this all alone."

"I haven't been. Alone I mean. I've had Scott the whole way." And Derek, though he doesn't mention it, given the added scrutiny his father had been casting over the interactions between them the other night. "It's a lot, I know. But I've had a year and a half to get used to all of this."

"Stiles, you're only seventeen."

Stiles laughs. "What, like I'll be magically more able to deal with this in six months when I'm eighteen? Or is it twenty-one when the supernatural is suddenly easy to deal with?"

His father lifts his eyebrows and tilts his head in agreement. "Well it's not twenty-one, because forty-five isn't cutting it either," he says, sharing a wry grin with Stiles.

"So," Stiles says, clapping his hands together. "Good talk."

He stands, and so does his dad. But his father sets a staying hand on his shoulder before he can slip away. "Just… promise me you'll be cautious with this," the Sheriff says, frowning at the box.

Stiles hesitates, because careful isn't exactly always a possibility when it comes to teaching himself magic. But the look in his dad's eyes has him capitulating and saying "I promise."

 

They eat dinner together, firmly staying away from anything resembling the supernatural in their topics. And oddly, the conversation comes a little easier than it had been lately. Not having to worry about what he could and couldn't tell his sharp-witted father meant he was relaxing more, and he suspected that from his dad's side of things, not having to try and figure out what his son was keeping from him took the pressure off too.

They talk about his latest wikipedia sojourns, and his dad's new deputy. About what to get for dinner next week in the grocery shopping and whether or not they really should bother keeping the cable subscription.

Eventually they both retreat into their separate rooms. The box is sitting on his desk, drawing his attention immediately. He wonders that he's never found it before, the way it's tugging at him. Perhaps he'd had to come into his magic before it would mean anything to him. Either way, the wood almost gleams even in the darkness before he turns on the lights. 

He sits down in front of it, studying the outside a while longer before finally reaching for the simple clasps holding it shut. Things that weren't locked weren't usually that dangerous. At least that's what he tells himself, anyway. The lid opens smoothly, bound with a leather hinge on the inside under a velvet lining. Inside the box is a tiny mortar and pestle, next to a set of stones carved with a variety of runes, each with their own magical resonance as he brushes his fingers along them. A bowl made of bone holds them. But most exciting of all, there's a book, thick and leather-bound, worked almost as intricately as the box itself. 

He makes himself take his time studying the objects, trying to make careful observations of them in his own small notebook he keeps with him most of the time before organizing his notes into his computer-based files.

But eventually he's out of patience and he replaces the objects in the box before lifting out the book and setting it gently on his desk. When he finally cracks open the book he groans. It's in a language he doesn't know. It might be Polish. Possibly. 

"Really?" he complains to the air, though it makes perfect sense. His mom's family was from eastern Europe after all, and the book is _old_. He'll be lucky if it's not in some dialect too.

He powers up his laptop and brings up a translation site as well as all his files where he keeps his notes on magic and supernatural lore. It makes him miss his phone, but he was still saving up for a new one after the pool incident. Opening word he pulls up the extended alphabet symbols and slowly starts entering the words from the table of contents. When he pastes the first few words into the translator, it detects a variation on Polish, and more or less translates the words into sense. 

_Family Lore and Enchantments_

It takes another hour, but he gets the table of contents translated. And there are some titles he's never seen anything like before in any of the other books he's searched. His excitement is hard to contain, but it's already late and he _had_ promised to be cautious with it, so he keeps it quiet and puts the book away for now for his dad's sake.

Besides, he still needs to search through his existing library for clues about the stolen ash. After a moment's hesitation he shuts the box up and places it carefully out of sight in the bottom of one of his cabinets. Then he returns to his desk and pulls up his stack of quasi-legitimate spellbooks from the shelf beside it.

He's halfway through reading the sixteenth spell in his collection that includes ash as an ingredient when it hits him. He'd forgotten about the book at the library. He smacks his forehead down on the book - it's just a stupid spell for easing arthritis anyway, and only uses the ash from old fire logs. Not exactly the sort of spell you went around digging up bodies for, but those sorts of books weren't readily available. As far as he'd read, even the one in the library only had a handful of the more powerful spells, most of which he hadn't even begun to decipher.

The fact that it's missing, however, means that there's definitely some spell-working in the works.

Something niggles in the back of his mind and he stills, waiting for whatever it is to come forward. But instead he finds himself remembering the look on Derek's face when Stiles had revealed that there was a body missing, he snags his phone off the desk and dials Derek's number right away.

"Stiles," Derek's voice is rough with sleep.

"Shit, sorry, did I wake you up?" He looks over at his alarm clock which reads 02:54 in hazy red letters. Oops.

Derek just grunts, which, is kind-of expected really.

"So, I forgot to tell you. The book's missing."

"What book?" Derek says, sounding like he's seriously questioning his sanity. Which is fair because Stiles probably isn't making much sense.

"The magic one, in the library. The one in the archive section - it's not supposed to get taken out."

Derek is silent like he doesn't know what to do with the information. Which… yeah, okay, why should he know what to do with it? Stiles didn't know what it meant either.

"Look I... I wanted to make sure to share information better this time."

His words are again met with silence, before Derek finally says, "Good."

Stiles, however, is distracted by the point that had been bothering him. "Point is, if these guys have been snagging magical ingredients there's a chance they stopped in like Hillsboro or Redridge at the occult stores to pick up supplies."

Derek makes a faint "huh" sound, then sighs. Stiles can hear what sounds like him rolling over in his sheets, which... 

Which Stiles is _not_ going to think about. And he absolutely does not think about whether Derek is sleeping naked or not. Nope.

"So," he blurts, forging on in a rush, "That might be a lead, right? Sounds like a good lead to me. I mean, I didn't find much in the spells I've been looking through. Most of them seem to be transformative or involve transfer of some sort. And teasel root seems to come up more than once, but… I don't know. Maybe I can keep looking for other common ingredients."

Derek grunts again, and Stiles decides that it's a sound of agreement. Because it is an excellent plan.

"I guess I thought you'd want to know since...,"

And he kinda doesn't really know why he even called Derek about it. It wasn't like he was actually part of the alpha's pack. Wouldn't he have called Scott first normally?

Maybe it was just because they had been together on this problem so much. And all the time spent alone together the past weekend, maybe it lent an illusion that they were getting closer when in reality... whatever they'd been... well, Derek had gotten out of there plenty fast earlier in the week after coffee. Not that he was thinking about that.  
Much.

"Anyway, I'll drive out to those stores tomorrow to investigate."

"No," Derek says, voice flat.

Stiles pulls the phone away from his ear to glare at it incredulously.

"Yes," he counters, pronouncing the word carefully.

Derek grunts, frustrated. "Not alone. I mean you can't go alone."

"Well sure, I know we're doing that whole 'stick together' thing, but everyone's gonna be at the game... so. Yeah."

Derek's silent for a long moment.

"I'm not going to the game."

Stiles doesn't know what to think about the way his heart stutters in his chest. Apparently it doesn't matter how many times in a week that he tells himself not to have a stupid unattainable crush. It doesn't work.

"Oh."

He's glad that Derek's not here in person to listen to his heart-rate as he feels a spike of reaction to the idea of sitting in the car, just the two of them, for hours. To the memory of the way Derek's face had lit up with that smile, the way his mouth had been hot and wet on his skin as his teeth had nipped his hand. There's a long silence between them that stretches toward awkward fast. Then Stiles realizes he hasn't said anything that resembles acceptance.

"Okay," he says.

"I'll drive," Derek says, voice brooking no argument. "Now go to sleep, Stiles. It's the middle of the night."

"Okay," Stiles agrees faintly.


	8. Chapter 8

A year ago Stiles would have been devastated to miss a lacrosse game and risk his spot on the team. Now though…

He shows up bright and early. The now-familiar grumble of the jeep wakes Derek, long before it's close to the house. This early there's silence enough to hear it a long way out. Derek rolls out of bed and digs out some clothes. He's just stepping onto the porch, settling his shirt down over his torso when the jeep rolls to a stop in front of the house.

He waits till Stiles has seen him, then turns and walks back inside, leaving the front door open. After all, he too has his priorities; coffee first, then words.

He paces through the hall to the kitchen. The surviving boards have been swept clean, even dry-ice-blasted to remove the residue of the char. Unrecoverable sections have been cut out and replaced in most places, though he hasn't finished the work. The boards will be ready for staining soon though. The house is smelling less and less like fire and more and more like wood and sawdust. Stiles brings in the morning air and the smell of freshly-washed teenager and warmth and energy as he bustles into the kitchen, slinging his backpack down on the old kitchen table that he's half-done sanding.

"So I've been looking through my other books, and I'm pretty fucking certain that whoever is doing this is really up to no good. I mean. Not that that's a surprise, but like. Yeah, I'm really sure now. Because not a single one uses human bits. And not all of the spells I have are nice, either," he says with eyebrows raised and head shaking for emphasis as he gestures in the bag's general direction. 

Derek frowns at him, then resumes dumping coffee grinds into the basket of his coffee machine. He puts in an extra shake's worth given the circles under Stiles's eyes, despite his apparent energy. 

Stiles sighs and slides over to lean against the counter beside him, casual and contemplative as he adds, "Seriously the only spells that use anything even close to human ash and bones get into dangerous territory really fast. You don't even want to know some of the possible applications I thought up last night. They got kinda weird around four am," he says with a laugh.

Derek's mouth twitches in shared amusement. He has to admit that he'd been worried that there would be awkwardness. Some sort of tension between them after… sharing that coffee together. After he'd nearly kissed Stiles and ruined everything. He certainly feels tense enough. But Stiles doesn't seem to share his concern. Today there's just the sunny smile he's used to, the edge of excitement that cuts through even the slight edge of seriousness Stiles had been exhibiting the past few months. It's good. 

"Dude, aren't you cold?" Stiles blurts, and when Derek looks at him, he's gazing down at Derek's bare feet. 

Derek raises an eyebrow at him. 

"No, what am I thinking. Of course you're not cold. Just, shit. Like. Socks are the first thing I put on in the morning in fall."

Derek shrugs. "I usually run in the mornings."

"What does that…," Stiles begins, looking confused, then his eyebrows pop up and he grins. "Oh! You run barefoot… that's cool. I've heard that's all the rage in distance runners. Don't tell coach or he'll think it's a good new form of torture for us. I mean, it sounds good in principle, but not all of us can heal like it's nothing when we impale our feet on sharp objects. I like going for runs in the evening, burn off some energy and thoughts before I sleep you know? But you run in the morning, huh. I wouldn't have figured you for a morning person. Wait, you run in jeans?"

Derek turns a withering look on him. 

"Do you run _naked_?" Stiles says, face full of gleeful teasing. "Get one with the wolf? Go all nude and natural? Get your Godiva on?"

Derek doesn't reply for a moment, fighting the grin trying to edge its way onto his face. He punches the start button on the machine and turns which puts him straight into Stiles's space, looking down at him with a raised eyebrow. 

"Sometimes," he drops, tilting his head. "Why, you want to come?" he asks then turns and walks away.

It doesn't come out nearly as sarcastic as he'd intended. In fact, his voice, still rough with sleep, had sounded downright dirty. It was stupid, really. Because he should have figured out enough by now to know that the sound of Stiles's heart-beat stuttering and the way his lips would part… well it just makes him glad none of the other wolves are around to smell the swirl of arousal that's coating him as surely as he can smell it now on Stiles. 

"Hungry?" Derek asks as he shoves his head in the fridge to block out the scent of the boy. It's too early to easily shelve the pull of his teasing desires, not without the benefit of the morning run to take the wild edge off his senses.

Stiles clears his throat and says, "I already ate, but thanks." Then he turns and starts opening cabinets till he finds the one containing their collection of mismatched mugs.

"That's Erica's," Derek corrects when Stiles reaches for one of the mugs. It's black with the words 'Bite Me' on it. Stiles snorts. "Should have guessed." but he moves to take it anyway. Derek lets out a sound of frustration and moves closer to grab the cup out of Stiles's hand, putting it back where it belongs.

"It's Erica's," he repeats, willing the boy to understand.

Stiles groans and rolls his eyes. "Seriously? You guys are territorial over _mugs_? Nevermind. What am I thinking? Of course you are. Why do I even bother being surprised anymore?" he mutters as he shoves the cups around, looking at them. One of them is a simple deep blue with a large chip in the rim. 

"Isaac's?" he guesses, tipping it so Derek can see it.

Derek nods.

Stiles reaches for another mug, this time one that's the pink one covered in kittens and kisses. "This can't possibly belong to anyone." 

Derek snorts. "That's Boyd's. Erica found it for him. He uses it just for her amusement."

Stiles snickers. "That's… actually totally believable. And adorable."

Satisfied that none of the betas will be affronted, Derek turns away with his yogurt, sitting down at the table, decidedly not paying attention to Stiles's perusal of the remaining mugs.

He eyes the plain white simply-cylindrical mug Stiles has chosen as the teenager sets it on the counter, along with a grey one with a faded university logo on it. Stiles pours coffee in both of them. He sticks his head in the fridge and grabs the milk - which he judiciously sniffs before he pours a dash in the white mug and a larger dollop in the grey mug. Derek squints at the mugs with a frown, then goes back to his yogurt as Stiles fiddles with the cabinets again.

"What do you need?" he asks eventually when it seems Stiles isn't going to find whatever he's looking for.

"Sugar."

"You take sugar in your coffee?" Derek asks, surprised, lifting an eyebrow at him. 

Stiles snorts, "I know, I'm already so full of sweetness, how could I need sugar?" he says, fluttering facetious eyelashes at Derek over his shoulder. 

"You're full of something," Derek mutters, though there's no heat in it. He's rewarded with a broad grin before Stiles goes back to digging.

He mutters an 'aha' when he finds the sugar dish in the cabinet with the cereal. He pours a large spoon-full into the white mug, then leaves the grey unsweetened.

Except when Stiles carries them over, he puts the white mug in front of Derek. And it's surprising because it's the one with sugar. The way Derek likes it. It's also _his_ mug. The one he always uses. 

Stiles just wanders away, oblivious to Derek's scattered emotions at the simple accuracy or insight. He drifts, running active fingers over the wood-working details in the cabinets as he drinks his coffee. He stops and stands at the kitchen sink, looking out the big box window that's set above it. The woods are visible beyond the messy clearing of sprawled amber leaves over grass that's dull but not yet quite dormant.

"Herb garden," Stiles says, curling the mug against his chest as he tilts his head.

Derek pauses, coffee cup halfway to his mouth. "What?"

Stiles glances back at him, looking faintly embarrassed as he shrugs, "Nothing. Just thinking out loud."

He turns back from the window and marches back over to the kitchen table. He doesn't sit though, just sets his coffee down a second to tug open his backpack. "It's a good thing we're going to the stores anyway, I'm running low on some of my basic herbs and I would much rather be fully-stocked if we're going to have to face off with anyone."

Derek frowns at the implication. He's never seen Stiles use any spells offensively, and if he has things his way, he never will. 

"Redridge or Hillsboro first?" he asks before taking another long pull of the sweet coffee.

But Stiles doesn't respond right away. He pauses to take another swig of coffee as though stalling. Eventually he says, "I was thinking, actually, before we head out I could try a locator spell. On the missing book, you know? It might work since I've spent so much time with it even though I don't have a piece of it. Like, I'm pretty sure it's more about visualization than actually having a piece of it. Though I could be wrong, it could be something like, I dunno, atomic cohesion or whatever." He tilts his head and purses his lips, looking eerily reminiscent of Lydia as he thinks it over. Then he shrugs. "Anyway I think it'll work. There's no reason I can't borrow your clearing, is there? No, like, faery rings I should watch out for?"

"Faery rings?" Derek says, eyebrow arching.

Stiles makes a supercilious face at him. "You say that like it's implausible. Anyway, uh… you cool with me doing that?"

He can hear in his voice that it's not just a question of whether he can do the spell there, but whether he should. Magic has never been his domain, so even though he can see arguments both ways Derek frowns, not sure what to say. And there's the fact that his judgment might be colored by a more selfish desire to simply watch Stiles working magic again. Unless… "Are you...," he begins to ask, gesturing at Stiles's arms which are still covered by the thin cotton layer of his long-sleeved tee.

Stiles follows his gaze and then blinks and grins half-heartedly. "Oh, yeah no, this spell doesn't use blood or anything. It's more about symbolism. Just takes some energy, some toasty herb smoke," he says, miming a tiny explosion with his hands. 

Derek takes another long pull of coffee, emptying it save for the dregs. Then he sighs. 

"Just don't burn down my house," Derek grumbles, pushing to his feet and carting his mug over to the sink. 

There's a stunned silence, then a choked laugh as Stiles manages "Oh my god you did not just say that."

When he glances over his shoulder Stiles is looking at him with shock and hilarity and also a deeper layer of understanding that pokes at something in his chest. Because Stiles gets what it means to be able to make a joke like that. Derek covers the moment with an amused snort and heads for the back door. 

Stiles snags his backpack and trots after him, saying, "So the virus has mutated and gallows-humor is contagious now? Quick, call the CDC."

Derek turns an arched eyebrow on him. "And who are we going to tell them is patient zero, you or Peter?"

The smile Stiles sends him is a brilliant one as he laughs, shutting the door behind him. "I don't know whether to be insulted or gratified. Or both. Probably both. Um… okay, so. Let's go over here," Stiles says, stepping down to the edge of the yard and flashing him an overly-chipper smile that speaks to his nerves. He sets off in the direction of where the yard transitions into a big clearing past the house. "Like. Way over here."

It's nice out. A little overcast, a little windy, but no real weather to speak of. Derek takes an automatic deep breath, sucking in the scents of his forest. Stiles finds a place in the grass that's mostly clear of debris or extra foliage and kicks aside the rest of the sticks and detritus until he has a clear-enough space. He glances at the sun rising in the east, shifting his position till he's facing north. Then he settles down on the ground and gets to work. Derek watches as he lays out a few herbs in the shallow copper bowl he's seen him use a few times before. Stiles hesitates a moment over another object, a small rectangular bit of carved stone, which he taps his thumb against a few times as he considers it. Then he sighs and puts it back in the bag.

He gets to his feet then, zipping the bag up and tossing the backpack back towards the house. His fingers fiddle with the edge of his shirt as he heaves a steadying breath, then turns back. He rubs his hands together, frowning down at the objects a moment before he sighs and steps close to them. "Ok, here goes," he says, picking up a small bag of salt and starting to tip it out so that salt spills onto the grass in an arc.

Derek can feel his nerves as he finishes the circle with himself inside it. It makes him edgy in turn the same way the wind running through the trees prickles at the hairs on his arms. "Should I…," Derek asks, gesturing vaguely.

"Yeah no, you're fine. Just, don't break my circle, okay? It should help me focus my energies and keep other ones out. Or you know, contain any backlash from getting out if I fuck it up." His laugh is mirthless and his eyes skitter away into the trees.

Derek crosses his arms. "Backlash?"

Stiles grimaces like he's trying to put on a bright smile and failing. "I mean, that's always a possibility. If I fuck up really bad. But it's not a difficult spell, it's not like there would be… It's just focus on the thing and think magic thoughts," he says with a focused forward-motion of both hands. "Easy as pie. In theory."

"In... are you telling me you haven't done this before?" Derek snaps, arms unfolding and falling to his sides in dismay.

Stiles rubs an awkward hand against the back of his head as he stares at the circle he's drawn on the ground. "Uh. Yeah, not, exactly."

"Stiles," Derek begins, voice warning as he strides closer, seriously considering putting a stop to this.

"It's a basic spell. It's totally in the section for easy stuff."

It's not a lie. But it's not exactly the truth either. Derek frowns, wondering if Stiles is saying it to convince himself as much as he is trying to convince Derek. But Stiles sets his jaw with determination, and Derek ends up just crossing his arms as he watches Stiles settle down onto the ground beside him, crossing his legs. He doesn't seem to be planning on taking off his shirt to do this one. Derek's not sure whether he's relieved or disappointed, and that just annoys him further. He scowls and turns to pace the perimeter of the clearing, checking on the scents and sounds of the forest, just because it's something he can do. 

Still, it's fascinating to watch as he lights a match and sets the herbs in the little bowl burning. Derek returns to his side, watching him with annoyance and anxiety twisting in the back of his head as the herbs crumble to ash. Even though he tries, he can't smell them. The circle must be working then. Stiles on the other hand seems to be breathing in the scents readily, eyes drifting closed as his lips part over the soft twist of smoke that floats up past him and onward to the sky. His throat is long and tight holding his head out over the ashes for a long moment before he sits back again.  
Stiles closes his eyes, taking a few measured breaths. But his heart beat doesn't stabilize.

"Yeah, no. The whole looming thing is going to have to go," he says, eyes flashing open again as he screws up his face in Derek's direction.

Derek rolls his eyes, tempted to argue. But that wouldn't help, so he turns and walks back towards the house a ways, sitting on a log chunk orphaned in the lawn, leaving Stiles enough space to work without interference, but remaining close enough to be the support Stiles might need. 

For a while, it seems like nothing's happening. Derek listens as Stiles's heartbeat eventually slows and steadies, then his breathing becomes deep and slow as well. His face tips up a little toward the rising sun in the distance as it climbs above the treeline. Then faint words start to flow from his lips, barely more than a whisper. This goes on for a while, the words either too faint or too foreign for Derek to make out. It doesn't matter, the words are for Stiles's needs anyway. Derek is content to watch, to study Stiles's profile. To listen to the faint sounds of the surrounding woods.

Abruptly Stiles's words cease as he makes a faint sound, one that rings of simultaneous sensations of discomfort and pleasure. His spine stiffens and the muscles in his back flex under the fabric of his tee. Then he lets out a long, slow breath that sounds different from the others.

Derek feels just the faintest shift in the air. Magic's really not something he's attuned to, for all that he's a supernatural being. It's like it's something that exists on a different frequency from what he can hear. He does hear Stiles's heartbeat increasing, however, though his breathing remains steady and deep. 

It doesn't stay that way. Stiles remains tightly focused, eyes on some distant point Derek can't see. Before long there's another shift in the air. Stiles's breath is coming faster and heavier, the muscles in his back and neck going taut as his head tilts further back. It's not just tension, but straining effort. Without making a conscious decision to do so, Derek stands from his little chunk of log and drifts closer to the circle. Stiles doesn't notice his approach at all, far too immersed in the spell. Stiles's fingers dig into his thighs and he grinds his teeth against whatever he's feeling. As he nears, Derek realizes he can see a faint glow leaking intermittently through Stiles's shirt, probably tracing the lines of his tattoos, like he's grabbed onto the tail of an electric eel. 

It looks difficult, but Stiles's breathing isn't like it had been saving Erica, it isn't desperate. And it's not like he's bleeding, so at first Derek doesn't interfere, despite the bad feeling tickling in his gut. He just watches, tension building steadily till he can't help but move closer, to be where he can reach him if he needs to. Stiles's warning not to break the circle rings loud in his head, so he waits. But then the grass beneath Stiles starts to wither. He's sweating now, and his breathing changes, shifting towards something that sounds more like desperation. His eyes remain glassy and focused, body stiff and motionless. He doesn't so much as bat an eyelash, but abruptly a sense of fear spikes into the clearing, dragging a strangled sound from Stiles's throat. The tangling feeling of danger intensifies along with it and despite Stiles's warnings, Derek reaches for him automatically. 

Breaking the circle feels like puncturing a balloon, the trapped scents rushing outwards as he pushes in. The instant he touches Stiles's arm, the world goes sideways. It's a horrible sensation, like his insides are being sucked into a vortex whose point of origin is at Stiles's core. The pull of it spikes painfully up his spine like his aura is trying to cling to it and failing. He gets the intense and instantaneous sensation of being watched, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up fast.

Then, with vertigo-inducing suddenness, he's flung back the other direction - or at least his _consciousness_ is flung. Physically it seems he's neither moved towards Stiles nor backwards. Either way, it makes him severely nauseous, ears popping with the change in pressure. He twists away, landing hard on all fours, trying to find his center again, gasping hard, saliva dripping from his mouth as he struggles to keep down the contents of his stomach.  
After just a moment, though, his vision steadies and the nausea passes.

"Fish 'n Bits?" Stiles croaks, incredulous. 

"What?"

"I have no fucking clue, man. Ugh," Stiles groans, falling back into the still dew-damp leaves. "I'm not even sure whether I'm pissed at you for ignoring my instructions or grateful for pulling me out before I lost."

Derek spits to clear his mouth of excess saliva before he asks, "Lost?"

Stiles groans again. "Apparently if you use magic to look for someone who actually knows what they're doing, they can mess with you. I mean, I tried to... I don't know, like, block him or whatever? But I think I was probably going to fail. Man I don't know if he, like, saw me when you broke me out of it... but who knows what would have happened if you hadn't given me that extra burst of power to fight him off."

"You okay?" Derek says, sitting back on his heels while he tries to get his balance back. Despite the discomfort, he's glad he broke the circle.

"Okay? Yeah, I'm fine, though…," Stiles breathes. "That was intense…" 

The smell of ozone is fading from the air, and much more human scent is quickly replacing it. When he glances back over his shoulder, Stiles is spread out in the leaves, stretching like he's laying on silk sheets instead of dirt, head tipped back and throat bared, chest moving fast, open with breath. And his…

Derek looks away again sharply as Stiles moans out a sigh that sounds positively erotic to his unfortunately receptive ears. Stiles stretches again in the leaves, rustling them softly as he hums a pleased sound, then brings his hands down to brush over his face as he takes a couple more steady shallow breaths, the kind that are designed to calm you down.

"I'm fine," he reiterates. "Sorry. Just a little lightheaded. Fucking werewolf juice... that is one hell of a rush," he says, voice breathy and low. "Do you… does it feel like this all the time for you?"

Derek pushes to his feet and then looks down at the sprawled teenager. Lust punches him in the gut at the sight of him from this angle, looking wrecked with his shirt rucked a few inches up his abdomen revealing the trim cut of his hips down into the waistband of his boxers. Derek turns his head skyward. "I don't know. I don't know what it's like to be human."

Stiles drops his palms down to settle on his chest, not even bothering to right himself, too distracted by the moment. He blinks at Derek a beat as he thinks it over, then his eyebrows flick up as he says, "huh."

But eventually he too gathers himself to rise, twisting this way and that to flick off precocious leaves. 

"I'll drive you home," Derek says, turning and marching back towards the house, snagging the discarded backpack as he goes.

"What? No. I'm fine. More than fine, actually," he says with a humming sigh as he stretches before grabbing up his bowl and hurrying after him. "Seriously. Let's keep going."

Derek frowns at him, handing off the bag as he steps inside the kitchen. He gets as far as the foyer, then pauses for a moment, considering whether or not he agrees with Stiles. Stiles just sighs impatiently and strides away towards Derek's bedroom. Derek follows him, confused and definitely concerned about the impending disaster of Stiles dragging his scent all over Derek's room. Stiles just grabs Derek's shoes and throws them at him, then starts digging around in a drawer for some socks, presumably. Derek grunts in frustration and grabs Stiles by the scruff of his neck dragging him and therefore those damned fingers off of his clothes. 

"Fine."

Stiles watches him until he actually sits down on his mattress and pulls one of his socks on. Then, satisfied, he turns and heads out to the foyer again.

"I can drive. I'm fine. Been taking my iron supplement and everything," Stiles says when Derek joins him a minute later.

Derek frowns, striding past him to the front door, shrugging on his leather jacket as he steps outside again.

"Ooooor not," Stiles mutters when Derek just heads straight for the Camaro.

He pauses for a second, glancing over at Stiles. He's… pouting, he realizes. He tracks back over the last thing Stiles had said, trying to understand the issue. He glances at the car, then back at Stiles.

"It's faster" he says awkwardly.

Stiles makes a face but shrugs it off and shuffles along towards the car. "Hey if you want to pay for the gas, be my guest," he replies, face edging into a wry grin. 

Derek glares at him in reply as he slings himself into the driver's seat. Stiles hops in energetically enough, but Derek can tell the spell had taken more out of him than he is admitting. When Derek pulls away from the house, Stiles sighs deeply and settles into the leather. He doesn't even argue when Derek turns on the radio and leaves it on the jazz station that it's already set on.

After a while, Stiles's eyes drift closed. He needs it. It annoys Derek that he's been staying up so late doing research, and it also annoys him that he can't criticize him for it because he understands it. Needs it to protect his pack.

Stiles sleeps most of the way there. It's not until they drive into a mild rainstorm that he wakes, jerking upright at the sound of the heavy droplets splattering themselves against the windshield. He squirms momentarily, looking confused until his eyes meet Derek's. Then he relaxes, like the sight of Derek is something good. Something he trusts. Derek casts a speculative look over Stiles as he blinks sleep the rest of the way away and gives his neck a crack along with a groan. 

"How much further?" he asks through a yawn.

"Twenty minutes."

Stiles sighs, then reaches down into his backpack to retrieve a sketchpad. He drums the pencil against it for a long few moments, thinking. Derek watches with his peripheral vision as the younger man fiddles with the edge of his sleeve cuffs, pushing them up all the way to his elbow on both arms. The cuts are pink-edged, but healing well. 

One of his tattoos peeks out down from the edge of the fabric. He wants to know what they all are. He hadn't gotten a chance to really look at them when Stiles was working his magic to save Erica, or when he'd been helping him dress his wounds and change. Though tempted, Derek doesn't scrutinize further. The fact that Stiles feels comfortable enough around him to show even that little bit of secret skin is something he doesn't want to change. 

But the temptation to look is strong. He allows himself a quick glance or two. Once when he glances over he notices what Stiles is drawing and lets his gaze linger a bit. Not that he actually recognizes the shape itself, but he recognizes the style of symbolic lines and curls of power. Similar to the ones he'd glimpsed that are already on Stiles's body. Derek finds himself wondering whether he had designed all of his own art.

"Another tattoo?" he asks casually.

Stiles glances at him, lips parted in surprise. "Oh. Yeah, maybe. I've been thinking about something to help with poisonings," he says. Inexplicably, his cheeks flush a hot red before he clears his throat and continues, saying "You know. Since it seems to happen to the pack relatively frequently."

Derek is nonplussed to hear that Stiles was considering carving something into his body _specifically_ for his pack. He wonders even more about the existing tattoos. What if there were already… 

A flash of possessiveness runs headlong into a sense of hesitant awe at the thought of Stiles marking himself as Derek's in any way. He swallows, turning his gaze back to the road. "That’s…," 

"It's just an idea," Stiles blurts, shoving the notebook closed and sticking it back away in his bag.

"Smart. Thoughtful," Derek says quickly to try and stem the embarrassed annoyance spreading on Stiles's face.

Stiles looks at him, an edge of vulnerable interest in his eyes before he tugs his mask back down and nods, turning his attention to the phone he slips out of his pocket as it buzzes with a message. He changes the subject with an unsubtle shift. "Looks like we're winning, 4 to 1 right now."

The rest of the trip goes quickly enough. Stiles starts talking out different ideas and theories he's been playing with about the witches. He wonders when the kid's rapid-fire sleuthing had become normal to him instead of overwhelming or obnoxious. It's almost comfortable, this thing between them. Familiar, listening to him talk, listening to his thought process made audible, even throwing in a comment here and there himself.

They work well together, despite their differences. Perhaps because of them. There's a complementarity there that, after the first few months of smoothing the roughest edges, lets their strongest features fit together, to create a more complex shape that had more strength together than in its respective halves. It's engrossing enough that Derek almost hits a median curb when he swerves on a turn that Stiles points out abruptly but late. But he doesn't, so he settles for a glare and leaves it at that as they pull down a short road and into a run-down strip-mall.

He's about ready to take back his thoughts about Stiles not being ridiculous and obnoxious, however, when Stiles points to the shop in question. "We don't have time to waste on-"

"No, that's the store," Stiles insists. 

"Seriously? This is your legitimate magic source?"

"Yeah well surprisingly enough, creepy old houses in the woods aren't actually good business plans," Stiles says, rolling his eyes as he slips off his seatbelt, tugging his sleeves down. "Not that this is much better… god how miserable the architect of places like this must be… it has to be like… soul death."

"Stiles… it's a comic-book shop," Derek says as Stiles steps out of the car, apparently serious.

He leans back down to duck his head into the car and grin at Derek across the front seats. "Yep. For the most part."

Derek rolls his eyes but parks the car and gets out after him, following him on his approach to the dingy barred glass door. He pulls it open, clearly having been here before multiple times. Derek enters a little more slowly, looking around for potential enemies and exits before he clears the doorway. But the store is empty, save a clerk standing at the counter who closes his laptop at their arrival.

"Hey Billy," Stiles says, walking over to the glass counter. He taps his fingertips on the metal edge as he leans over the case, looking at the featured comics inside momentarily before flicking his attention back up to the soft and generally plain-looking man. He has the sort of build that says he's never had much muscle on him, and a face that's somewhere vaguely in his thirties. The glance he casts Derek's way is definitely nervous. 

"Uh, hey."

"Listen, I was wondering, have you maybe seen anyone legit around lately? Newcomer, buying up a lot of stock maybe?"

Billy shrugs, glancing between them. "I don't know. We get plenty of people I don't know in here."

Stiles tilts his head, then sighs with a disappointed look. "Okay. That's a bummer. Some jerk is moving in on my turf and I thought you might have noticed a new face."

Billy just shrugs again, not actually saying no. But Derek can tell it for the lie it is anyway. He crosses his arms, and Billy winces.

"Okay. Well I'm gonna look around. I've gotta stock up on some stuff. But you know, I’d appreciate it if you happen to remember something that might help…" Stiles says, waiting for Billy to nod. Then he meanders further into the shop, leaving Billy to stare nervously at Derek. 

Derek pins Billy with another frown, then follows after Stiles. "That's it?" he murmurs, stepping close behind him.

Stiles sends him a patronizing look. "Of course not," he says, picking up a sack of herbs from beneath the tablecloth of the little gaudy incense and quartz display that's clearly meant for tourists. "But you know, let him stew a little while, and besides, it's always better to collect the items you need _before_ anything…" he waves his hand inarticulately. "escalates." 

"And are you expecting anything to escalate?" Derek asks as he fiddles with a little piece of obsidian carved into the shape of a fang while Stiles browses.

Stiles snorts. "Just going on past experience, I'd have to say the odds aren't exactly low on that one."

He pokes around through the shelves a little longer, stacking things under his arms, then meanders back to the counter. "Billy I was also thinking about picking up a book this time. You know, one of the special ones. Could you bring out that earth witch's grimoire I almost bought last time? I knew I should have just bought the damn thing, it's been in the back of my mind ever since."

Billy stays well back of the counter, looking even more nervous at the request. "Uh, sorry. It's gone."

"Damn." Stiles grimaces and turns a look on Derek as he says, "See? Should've trusted my instincts last time."

Derek's not sure if he's sending him an 'I-told-you-so' about the escalation thing, talking about his instincts like that. But he's not inclined to disagree, considering what he's hearing listening to the steadily-increasing heart-beat of the clerk. 

Stiles sighs and turns back to the counter.

"So, hmm… well what about the, what was it?" he thumbs his lip in consideration. "Right. It was Romanian, right? I think I'll buy that one."

The second request doesn't sit well for Billy either. "It's gone too."

Stiles's voice is cool and not particularly hopeful when he says, "Okay, how about anything from the collection."

"Sold them all," Billy says, face flushing with nerves and an edge of pungent sweat.

Stiles's pleasant mask fades entirely. "Billy. What's the deal, why are you holding out on me? You've had some of those things for years, I know you can't have just sold them like that," he says, punctuating with a snap of fingers. "Not without a big buyer. So what's the deal? Who's this ass-hat?"

"N-nobody. Just… a customer."

"You're telling me some customer just bought everything. Thousands of dollars' worth of books in one buy. All of it, and you didn't once think he might be up to something shady."

"Look, leave me out of this. I don't have anything to do with this."

Derek groans. "We don't have time for this bullshit," he snaps, hopping over the counter easily and sweeping Billy back by his throat against the wall before the guy can so much as squawk. "Start. Talking."

"Look, I didn't know him or anything," he gasps, eyes going frightened-rabbit wide. "He just came in and bought a lot of stuff one day."

Stiles nods. "So a new guy. What else?"

"I don't know, he was just a guy."

"Billy, listen. I don't know who you think you're protecting here. You know me, I'm a regular. This _guy_ on the other hand is probably connected with this witch who tried to murder one of my friends. And I may not be snow white, but I really don't think you want to side with murderers."

The shopkeeper pales. "But they…," he clamps his mouth shut.

"They _what_?" Derek snaps.

"They promised everything was going to be grey," he whines. "You know, NHI."

Derek glances at Stiles, whose face is darkening at the unfamiliar initialism. Derek sends a questioning look at him. 

Stiles grimaces. "No Humans Involved," he explains curtly, voice furiously cold. "You'd think _sentience_ would be the moral line but no," he says, drawing out the word as he makes a mocking face at Billy, "After all, that would be less profitable for the peddlers. This way they can pretend that people like you are either expendable or commodities."

The anger is contagious, it seems, because when he meets Stiles's eyes and understands, the feeling is like a cold bucket of water followed by a steady burn.

"What do you…" Billy begins, glancing nervously back at Derek.

In turn, Derek growls, letting his eyes flash red as his fangs descend. "What exactly did you sell them?"

"An Alpha," Billy squeaks, squirming against his grip in a momentary panic. Derek just holds tight till he calms down enough to look at Stiles again and gasp out, "Look, I didn't want any trouble so I didn't get involved."

"Well you've got trouble anyway, you bigot," Stiles spits. "And I hate to break it to you, but whatever they told you it's black as fuck from where we're standing, so I'm betting you can imagine that my friend here would like some information. Now."

"I'm thinking he's more trouble than he's worth," Derek growls around his teeth, looking over at Stiles as he gives Billy a shake. 

Stiles just shrugs, casting a disinterested glance at the man pinned under Derek's arm. "Yeah, you might be right. I'm fairly certain we could hide the body without much trouble."

Derek raises an eyebrow. He'd actually been expecting a little Good Cop from Stiles. He should have known better. For all his sunny smiles and quirky behavior, Stiles's ruthless streak is a mile long. 

"Actually you have a point," Derek says and growls again for effect.

"I don't know anything. Not really. They wanted some grey supplies and I just… they said it would be NHI and I didn't want any trouble so I just let them have their stuff and leave. Just. Please, just let me go. This has nothing to do with me. Just get it off of me. Please, tell it to get away from me I -" he breaks off into incoherent pleading, avoiding looking at Derek again. His fingers scrabble at Derek's arm, weak nails barely doing more than moving his arm hair around.

"Why don't you just tell us what they bought," Stiles says, voice soothing for the edge of panic still threading through his voice and face as he babbles.

But Billy is too upset. He flails against Derek's grip, scrabbling for the pair of scissors next to the cash register. Billy's arm swings up with them like a blade in hand, but unsurprisingly, Billy isn't fast enough and Derek just punches him hard enough to send him sprawling. The scissors clatter to the ground and Derek kicks them away.

As he hauls Billy back to his feet, slamming him back against the wall again and draws his arm back to punch the guy again, Billy just crumbles.

"They were asking about you," the man blurts, looking at Stiles as he says it.

"Me?" Stiles asks, face turning dismayed and skeptical.

"They wanted to know if anyone from Beacon Hills had been in picking up legit books," he says, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "They just wanted your name and address. Wanted to try and buy some books from you. I mean, it's not like it's a secret. It's not like I told them you were a practitioner or anything.   
Stiles scowls, looking like he wants to punch the guy. So Derek punches the guy. Not that hard, but Stiles's face splits into a harsh smile. Feral. It does delicious, dangerous things to Derek's belly. He steps back a little, shaking the man again as Stiles launches into demands for details. But before Derek can do anything else, something else hits him on a basic level. He freezes, head jerking back as he tries to understand the sensation. He feels… his pack. He feels the three of them intensely, though distantly. It's almost a sharp pain, being suddenly very aware of his betas, and then feeling one of them disappear.

"We have to go," Derek says abruptly, cutting Stiles off. He steps away, leaving the guy there and starts striding for the door. He slams it open even as he fishes for the phone in his pocket.

Stiles comes banging after him a moment later.

"What's going on? Why do we have to go? I was going to-,"

But Derek is ignoring him, listening to the ringing on his phone. After several rings it goes to voicemail and he hears Erica's sultry voice start telling him to leave a message. He hangs up and tries Boyd. Stiles has fallen silent beside him. It goes straight to voicemail. He strides forward again, unlocking the Camaro and getting in as he punches Isaac's number. 

It goes straight to voicemail.

He throws the car in gear and pulls out of the parking lot in a screech of tires.

"Call Scott," he orders.

For once Stiles doesn't argue, he just gets his phone out and dials, listening to it ring. It goes to voicemail and Stiles makes a face, biting his lip as he listens to the spiel. When the tone beeps he says, "Hey buddy, it's me. Uh, give me a call when you-," but he stops suddenly. Derek glances over as Stiles pulls his phone down to look at it and punches a button.

He pops it back up to his ear. "Scott," he says, and Derek can tell from the tone of his voice that he's actually got Scott on the other end now.

He listens, and he can overhear Scott speaking urgently. _"They took them. They took Isaac and Boyd and Erica."_

"Shit," Stiles hisses under his breath, eyes widening as he looks at Derek.

Derek just pushes down harder on the accelerator.


	9. Chapter 9

The game had been enough to take Scott's mind off of everything, for a couple hours at least. But by the time he and the others have showered and grabbed their gear, making their way back out of the locker rooms, his mind is already churning with worry over what had come up at yesterday's pack+ meeting. Desecrated graves were one thing, but an attack on the hospital? Where his mom was? Yeah, that was so not okay.

A mid-season game wasn't a big deal, no talk of after-parties or tailgaters or anything. Everyone seems pretty content to leave early, so he walks with Boyd and Isaac to the parking lot and they hardly do more than exchange a wave or two with their scattering teammates. Allison and Erica are waiting for them near where they all parked. Erica jumps on Boyd and Isaac, throwing her arms around their necks in werewolfly affection. He waves absently at the others as they diverge off into their little trio towards Isaac's car, and curls an arm around Allison as she approaches.

"Don't worry so much. Your mom's got her eyes open and she's smart. She'll be fine," Allison says firmly, bumping a knuckle against his chin.

He smiles at her, tipping his head and bumping his face into her curls to snuggle. "Yeah."

They set off at a leisurely pace towards Allison's borrowed car, bumping their ankles and knees together in little playful steps and then Allison lets him go and makes a 'get-on-with-it' motion. Scott sheepishly pulls the phone he's been fiddling with out of his pocket and calls his mom anyway and leaves her _another_ voicemail reminding her to call him, like, all the time. Allison wanders away a few feet to crunch a particularly large fall leaf on the ground.

She's looking at something when he hangs up and trots over to catch up with her. And then he realizes that her heart-rate has skipped up and steadied into what he thinks of as her archer-mode. Allison slams a palm to his chest, dragging him down with her next to a car by a fistful of shirt.

"Allie?" he murmurs.

She strains around the corner for a look and Scott starts to pick up on the sound of scuffle.  
He recognizes Isaac's voice demanding someone stop and let them go. He snaps his head up to look over the car. A group of black-clad men and women are wrestling a hooded, snarling Erica to the ground. Boyd is already unconscious, several feathered darts apparent on his skin.  
Isaac is currently avoiding them with his more slippery talents and speed, but when Erica goes limp, the others swarm him in coordinated precision.

Scott feels the anger welling up in him as he starts to move but Allison wraps her arms around his waist, tacking him to the ground beside her with as much force as she can muster. Her face is a wash of upset and fear and anger.

"Don't. You'll just be hurt," she says. "They're hunters."

They're already going, the door to the dark van slamming shut. When they push to their feet the van is already roaring off out of the lot. He glares after them, memorizing the license plate.  
When he turns, Allison is punching them into her phone too.

He makes a frustrated noise, throwing his gear to the asphalt.

He stomps over to where the scuffle had happened, opening his senses as best he knows how. The scents of rage and fear and werewolf are strong, but they're familiar wolves, it's easy to start separating the scents. 

His phone starts vibrating in his pocket and he ignores it for the moment, still focused on the ground. He breathes short hard breaths, getting to know the mixture of scents in the area before they fade. He smells ash again, and blood. He thinks he'll be able to recognize the people by smell if he gets close.

Then he reaches for his pocket, pulling his phone out. The caller had been Stiles, so he punches the reply, calling him back. 

"Scott," Stiles says by way of greeting.

"They took them. They took Isaac and Boyd and Erica," he says, leading off with the most important information first.

"Shit," he hisses.

He hears the unmistakable growl of the Camaro in the background.

"Allison and I are going to try and trace them. We've got their license plate and scents."

"No," he hears Derek's voice say in the background.

"Ow," he hears Stiles say as the phone is apparently wrenched out of his grip.

"Don't go up against them alone," Derek orders, voice coming through clearly now that the phone is up against his face.

"Dude have you ever heard of asking?" Stiles blurts in the background. Scott snorts in agreement.

"Allison and I will be careful. We'll just track them. I will text you and Stiles updates when we have them. Text us when you get back to Beacon Hills," 

"That's not-,"

"I'm hanging up now Derek," Scott says firmly. It still rankles him that Derek thinks he can order him around.

But things aren't the same as they'd been in the beginning either. Derek huffs a sigh, but then grudgingly says "Fine. Don't do anything stupid."

"You too."

When he glances over, Allison has an odd look on her face. He steps over and slides an arm around her waist.

"We need to call the Sheriff and tell him about this," she says, shaking her head and then tipping her gaze to the sky. "I definitely never thought I'd say that. But he'll be able to help us track the license plates."

Scott kisses her cheek, grinning. "You're kind-of brilliant, you know that?"

She shoots him a lightweight glare that's weakened further by the pink staining her cheeks. "Come on, you call him, I'll drive."

He snags his things and they pile into her car, pulling out of the lot with only a little less ferocity than their quarry. Scott taps out a quick alert text to his mom, then shuffles through his contacts to find Stiles's dad and calls him. It rings a long time, goes to voicemail. Scott hangs up and dials again, determinedly not letting himself worry yet.

He picks up on the fourth ring. "Scott? Now's not a good time," the Sheriff says. Scott can hear the sound of sirens through the phone. "Is Stiles with you?"

"No," Scott replies, frowning. "He's with Derek. They're driving back to Beacon Hills right now."

The sheriff sighs with relief. "Right. The bookstore. Okay, what's going on? And please, make it fast."

"You'll want to hear this," he assures him. "A group of hunters just kidnapped Erica and Boyd and Isaac." 

"Mercenaries," Allison interjects as the sheriff swears under his breath.

"Allie says they're mercenaries. All we got was their license plate, but we were hoping you could get us some more info."

The sheriff sighs, "Damnit. That's not the only thing. I'm at a murder scene right now. It looks like it's part of this whole mess. Son, this information isn't for spreading around, but given the special circumstances..."

"I hear you," Scott says.

The sheriff pauses, like he's trying to figure out the best way to explain it. "The victim is… it's one of your teachers; Mr. Harris. And it's not pretty. He's been disemboweled and several of his organs have been removed. Taken."

"Oh man," Scott murmurs.

"Yeah," the sheriff agrees. "I'd like to tell you to go home and stay safe, and let us handle it, but I know that's not an option."

"No," Scott says. "Allison and I are going to track them."

"All right. Give me the plate and I'll put out a BOLO and then track down what I can for you. But if they're pros like you think, it's probably a rental, which is a dead-end." 

He relays the information and says, "Anything we can get. Thanks. And thanks for telling me about the other thing. Might come in handy." 

"Yeah. Keep me posted. And stay safe."

"You too."

 

-o0o-

 

Thankfully there's only a little early-afternoon traffic to slow them down on their way back. The knot twisted in Derek's gut grows steadily with each passing minute, pulling him back home. Stiles doesn't talk other than to call to check in with his dad and relay the new information. Occasionally an update gets sent from Scott or Allison, that they've found the car again, that they've lost it in traffic, where they're patrolling looking for it.

When he pulls up to the house he parks in the road, skidding to a halt next to the Jeep. Both of them spill out of the car. Stiles heads for his Jeep immediately, tossing his backpack into the seat as he says, "Okay I'll start patrolling around too, see if I can find any-"

"No," Derek interrupts, voice flat as he processes the scents coming his way. He turns his gaze out to the woods, focusing and drawing in a deep breath. He can vaguely hear Stiles arguing with him but he ignores it, striding off towards the trees.

The source of the scent is immediately apparent when he nears the pale bark of a birch tree, the red blood smeared over its skin at eyelevel. He hears Stiles crunching after him in the leaves.

"Holy shit, is that blood?"

Derek nods absently, scanning the trees beyond for other clues. When Stiles starts talking again he reaches out a hand and plants it over his mouth, stopping the noise and holding him still. Once Stiles is done squawking with indignation and finally holds still, Derek closes his eyes and listens for a long moment, able to tune out the sounds of his and Stiles's vitals now that they're steady. He hears a faint rustling sound further out in the woods. Definitely more than one person, too even to be wildlife. He drops his hand and sets off at a jog.

He doesn't stop at the next blood-marked tree, doesn't stop to sniff out whether it's still Boyd's blood or if it's Erica's or Isaac's this time. He just increases his pace, confident that he's on the right track.

Stiles almost stays with him, but after a while Derek notices that he's breathing a little too hard, falling behind slowly but steadily. He's surprised, he knows how hard high school athletes can train and he's seen Stiles's endurance more than once. But then he realizes that Stiles has already had an exhausting day and is still healing from saving Erica. He slows down a little, letting Stiles catch up. 

They move in quiet tandem a while, but when they approach their quarry, Derek goes into hunt mode automatically, slipping away from Stiles at an oblique angle and letting the teenager be a distraction for their target. He flanks the source of the noise, ignoring Stiles's muffle curse. But when he nears, everything shifts again. He drops to a walk and straightens.

"Scott," he calls quietly.

There's an answering flash of gold in the trees, and then the four of them converge on the small clearing around another blood-marked tree.

"Couple of trails coming in from different places," Scott says. He points southeast. "They converge that way."

Derek nods and starts heading along that vector, but Scott shakes his head.

"No, back to your place. We gotta get a look at some maps or something and come up with a plan instead of following their breadcrumbs like it isn't stupidly obvious."

"Underestimating the intelligence of wolves is a sloppy mistake," Allison says, a faintly haughty air to her tone. "But I guess that's what you get when you _hire_ your hunters."

Derek finds he shares and appreciates her attitude, but he's not sure she's quite right. Although he's well aware of how stupid the obvious blood trail would be to follow, he also feels a powerful urge that none of the others seem to share, like there's a line tied around his intestines that's pulling him along in the direction of the blood. Something tailored just for the Alpha.

"But they're not underestimating the pull it has on Derek," Stiles says softly.

Derek flicks a glance at him, surprised at his perception, but Stiles is squinting in an odd way at the air in front of Derek's belly, at exactly the point Derek feels the pull. Then Stiles eyes skim unerringly out to the southwest along the invisible line. 

"What do you mean? What did I miss?" Allison asks, moving closer, arrogance fading and a professional determination and interest replacing it, proving her the better class of hunter by her lack of defensive bluster.

"I don't think you could see it, but they've done something to it. The instinct I mean. Like they've hooked him with a…" he waves ineloquently "Magic fishing line, using the natural bond to the pack as the guide." Stiles scratches absently at a spot on his chest, one that happens to be glowing faintly for a pulse before it fades and Stiles shakes his head. 

"Can you manage it?" Scott asks, and Derek nods sharply, twisting away despite his discomfort. 

"Maybe," Stiles says. Derek glares at him, but Stiles is staring at the line again. "I might be able to…"

"I'm fine," Derek says gruffly, anger and embarrassment at Stiles's doubt in him giving him the impetus he needs to start walking. They start heading back to the house which is just visible in the distance. 

As they near the house, Allison slings her backpack off her shoulder and digs around in it for a moment, grabbing up a book. She hands it to Stiles, smiling. "Check out what I found. You are totally going to love this."

Stiles cradles the old book, leather-bound and foul-smelling to Derek's more sensitive nose. Almost immediately after he starts flipping through the table of contents, his eyes go wide.

"Holy shit. This is some nasty stuff," Stiles says, a wicked grin spreading across his face as he flashes it over to Allison.

She grins. "I'll have to get it back into storage before my dad notices it's missing, but he doesn't check the locker very often any more, so you should have enough time to copy it once we're done dealing with…" she waves at a bloody tree they're passing in frustration. "Whatever this is."

The computers come out as soon as they're in wifi range of the house, all three of them picking their way through satellite maps and zoning information and whatever else they can find, leaving Derek to pace the rooms of the house in barely-restrained frustration.

He eventually tries his bedroom. The lingering scent of Stiles on his clothes distracts him for a few minutes, instincts on high alert. He's so busy holding on to his resistance to leave the house, he hardly has the ability to stop himself lifting and drawing his nose over a tee shirt Stiles had held that morning. When he realizes what he's doing he throws the shirt down and flops down on his bed, staring at the pages of the book and trying to read. He ends up just staring at the red numbers of his alarm clock. An hour goes by that feels like days, and when the clock in his room clicks over he lurches to his feet, unable to stand it any more. He marches out into the living room, drawing the attention of the others with his entrance.

"We're wasting time," Derek snaps, flexing his fingers against the urge to bring out his claws as he strides for the door. "Simple plan. You stay here. I'll spring their damned trap and then I'll rip their throats out."

"No," Scott says firmly, grabbing his arm and halting his progress. "No, the plan is _we'll_ go," he says, pointing at himself significantly. "We'll sneak in instead of busting through the front door and we'll get the pack because they won't be expecting us. You'll stay here and ruin their plans."

"It's my responsibility," Derek says, glaring down at the hand on his arm until Scott lets him go. He turns to continue towards the door, ignoring the scrambling feet behind him.

"For whatever reason, they're after you. Not me, not the others. You. And if you go and get yourself killed, then what?"

"Then you'll be the alpha," Derek says flatly because it's obvious. 

"Bull-shit," Scott snaps, grabbing Derek's shoulder and yanking hard enough to pull him back around. "You're staying here."

Furious, and at the very edge of his control, Derek's face contorts as his fangs descend and his eyes flash red, roaring at Scott. Scott stands his ground, eyes flashing yellow though he looks otherwise completely unfazed. 

"I'm going to make you stay here if I have to."

"You and what army?" Derek spits out around his teeth, shoving at Scott's shoulders hard enough to have him rocking back a couple steps. Scott manages to keep his cool against the flare of fight his instincts are undoubtedly shoving at him but the struggle is visible on his face. Derek stares him down, growling, far less interested in keeping his cool.

"Derek, he's right," Stiles interrupts, stepping up to draw his red-eyed gaze, breaking the line of sight between Derek and Scott, face firm. "And you know it."

Derek growls at him too, but Stiles's expression just grows more belligerent, fearless as always when facing down Derek. They stare at each other for a long, tension-filled moment, neither of them budging in the slightest. Stiles's hand settles on his arm and the contact jolts him. He glances at it, and then up at Stiles, and this time both of their faces are wearing something different. 

Instincts aside, taking the raging need to go protect his pack out of the equation, they're right. He still glares over at Allison, who has been carefully sneaking along trying to stay outside his peripheral vision and get to a more strategic position. She doesn't even bother to flinch guiltily, just tips her chin up at him in solidarity with the others, mostly hiding her nerves. 

Eventually he turns and strides away to go sit on the stairs, fingers curling in his frustration. He doesn’t look back up at them, just stares at the far wall. He needs more drywall tape, he remembers. He stares at it, trying to concentrate on something that he can fix. That he has been fixing.

"Ok, so let's go," Stiles says, turning back to Scott. 

Scott makes a face that has apology and determination written all over it. "You too Stiles, you're staying back too," Scott says insistently.

"What?" he blurts incredulously, jerking forward a step. "Since when?"

"Your wounds are still healing. And as much as I _want_ you to stay back for your safety," he pauses, stopping Stiles before he can interrupt by clapping a firm hand on his shoulder. "I'd know better than to do that. Come on Stiles, if that were the only reason I'd be stupid to try it because it would never work."

Stiles snorts in agreement, a flicker of a smile edging onto his face as Scott gives him a little shake. "But the fact is that you'll be a liability out there right now because you're injured. I'm sorry, but it's the truth."

Stiles reels like he's been slapped. 

Though it looks like it pains him, Scott doesn't relent. "Sorry Stiles, you'd just slow us down tonight."

Allison frowns in regretful agreement when Stiles turns his pleading gaze on her. "You should probably stay together," she says, motioning between him and Derek. "Work on that book and keeping safe."

Stiles's face darkens. "Yeah whatever," Stiles mutters, voice tight, eyes staring resolutely at the wall.

"Okay. You should check in with your dad again and stuff. Keep us posted and we'll do the same, okay?" Scott says, looking worried. He glances at Derek, who gives him a grudging nod. Stiles just shrugs and walks out of range, but Scott knows him well enough to let it go, to know that he'll come around after he has a chance to cool off. He just nods again and then he and Allison are heading out, leaving a taut silence behind them.

Stiles wanders back into the room after they leave, staring after them. Then he edges over to stand near the stairs where Derek is. After a moment he sits, sighing heavily. 

"Well this sucks," he mutters.

Derek huffs his agreement, looking down at the soft skin below Stiles's ear where a vein transects his neck more prominently than the others. Like the moles, he's begun to not only notice but become familiar with the tiniest details of Stiles's person, the more time they spend together of late.

"You going to be okay?" Stiles asks, looking up at him with unfathomable eyes.

He frowns. "Maybe."

It's more of an admission that he'd like but Stiles doesn't go off the handle in the face of a doubt the way Scott tends to. He just nods, taking it in stride, thinking it over. He pats Derek's shin absently and gets up to walk away.

Derek stares at his shin and stays where he is, listening absently while Stiles does as suggested, calling his dad for an update about the murder or the black van. No news. Stiles sighs and explains about the dubious duo going after the hunters while Derek sits huddled on the steps. 

His instincts are raging through him. Breaking over him like the ocean on jagged stones, each time he breathes or moves or does _anything_. But standing still is worse, he realizes; a steady pull building and pulling with each moment that he doesn't go to them. He gets to his feet and wanders out into the living room, looking down at Stiles's laptop screen at the tiny maps and frowns, trying to make sense of them. When he looks up again, he realizes that Stiles has signed off with his dad and is still standing just a few feet away, unmoving. 

Stiles is doing it again, staring at the invisible line that's tugging on Derek's guts. He drifts closer, and Derek freezes, watching as Stiles lifts one angular hand into the air and _strokes_ it. Strokes the line of energy attached to him. It tingles, and not in an entirely unpleasant way. Or at all unpleasant, really. Especially not with that look of concentration and curiosity on Stiles's face. Derek is doing his best to keep his thoughts from going into dangerous territory. Then Stiles closes his fingers and tugs.

Derek bites back a groan at the pleasure-pain that jerks through his body and Stiles snatches his hand back with a blurted, "Sorry!"

But for a moment, the tension of the pull eases. "That felt… different. Can you…" Derek scratches at his belly, lifting his shirt to stare at his abdomen as he drags a claw over the point where it feels like the line originates. When he glances up, Stiles's eyes are fixed on the bare skin, but not in the same way as when he'd been looking at the magic. Then Stiles eyes snap up to his as he flushes. Derek glances away, ruthlessly crushing the urge to stride over there and make that heat spread further than his cheeks.

"You changed it. Could you... dampen it, maybe?" Derek asks, looking down at his belly again.

"Dunno," Stiles mutters, head tilting as he looks at the invisible line again. He reaches out again, but this time he doesn't touch the line. He stands there a moment like he's testing the heat of a flame, thinking, feeling the energy. Then he curls his fingers in a precise loop around the space and concentrates. His tongue pokes out to rest at the corner of his mouth as his brows furrow, and suddenly the sensation blurs a little, like there's some static alongside the signal.

"That's doing something, fuzzy," Derek says, holding as still as he can so as not to disrupt Stiles's concentration.

Stiles's eyebrows twitch and he keeps at it for a moment longer, then his fingers fling open and there's a snap like electricity had arced between them. He shakes his hand like it's been burned, gasping out a breath he'd been holding.

"Better," Derek says, and Stiles gives him a flick of acknowledging eyebrows in lieu of words as he hunches away, still breathing a little hard as he makes his way back to the couch.

Derek follows him, wanting to say more than just 'better', but when Stiles looks up at him and they stare at each other awkwardly for a long moment he gives up and leaves him to it, drifting over to one of the windows to stare out into the night. 

It's better, but not gone. He stands there until he can't stand still any more. Then he paces again. Despite Stiles's assistance, the pressure builds steadily. He marches around and around the rooms of the first floor in big loops around where Stiles is sitting, trying to concentrate on that disgusting blood-rot book.

Eventually it proves he's not the only one with patience being tested.

"Oh my god would you sit down or something?" Stiles snaps, slapping the book closed. "You're giving me a headache."

"It's giving _you_ a headache?" Derek demands, rounding on the teen. "Well if it's such a problem, what are you even doing here?" 

"Uh, gee, I don't know. Maybe keeping you from doing anything really stupid like going out and getting yourself captured. Or maybe some extra help if they come after you directly," he snaps, shoving up his sleeve to display the mostly-healed cuts and the edge of a tattoo.

No. No he doesn't want that. "You're going to protect me?" he scoffs like it's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard.

Stiles's cheeks and throat flush red hot as he turns away sharply. And it's not a sweet blush of embarrassment or arousal but of anger and hurt. And Derek knows it's wrong, knows the words spilling out of his mouth aren't fair. But it's his fault his pack is in trouble. It's his fault Scott and Allison are out there alone. It's his fault Stiles has scars all over his arms now.

"In case you hadn't noticed, I'm the-"

Stiles whirls, eyes sparking. He jerks forward, jabbing an index finger into Derek's chest right over his heart. "Don't you even fucking say that to me right now." 

"You still don't get it? Why I've been working so hard on my magic, why I push so hard?" he says, words clipped in anger as he claws his fingers over the pink lines scratched across his skin. "Why I literally _bleed_ for it? Yeah. I know I'm weak, compared to you guys. But I am fucking trying, okay? I'm doing everything I can," he hisses. 

There's so much more to it than that. He stares back at Stiles, trying to put it into words. But he's too close. Too hurt. Derek just tightens his jaw and looks away from those slashes and their bearer, fingers curling into his palms. 

There's a long silence, then Stiles huffs a short sigh through his nose and drops his hands to his sides with a faint smack. "I guess it's not enough," he says, voice flat. "I don't know what else I can give."

No. It's the opposite. It's too much. It's too much he's sacrificing for Derek who doesn't deserve it at all. Stiles shouldn't even _be_ here. "Well if it's such a problem for you, why bother?" Derek snaps despite himself. Neither of them should be here. He should get Stiles somewhere safe and be out there searching for his pack, he should-

Stiles storms closer to him, drawing his gaze back forcefully when he shoves both hands hard against Derek's chest, knocking him back a few paces in surprise. Already on edge, Derek has to actively suppress the instinct to fight back, to drop fangs and claws.

"Why _bother_?" Stiles parrots, eyes wide and lips curled in an incredulous expression. "Are you serious? Yeah, it's not like I've saved your _life_ before or anything." He shoves at Derek more, eyes glinting sharply gold in the light of the setting sun angling through the windows. "Or Erica's life. Or everyone's fucking life. I mean. Why fucking bother trying to save the people I care about?" his voice cracks over the words, thick with emotion. He shoves Derek again, but this time it's not very effective. It lacks anything more than cursory force. 

Derek stifles the urge to growl. To push him away. To wrap him close and take away his pain. His arms land on Stiles's in some mixture of the two. He doesn't want this, why doesn't Stiles get that? He wants him safe, not dragged into the next stupid mess that's chasing Derek. He wants him-

Stiles shoves himself back away from Derek instead. "Fuck. You know what? Fuck you. I'm just done," he spits, stomping away towards the front door. He jerks it open and it bounces when he slams it shut behind him. 

The gears on the jeep grind through a rough gear change and then the car is rumbling away and leaving him to stew in his furious silence in a home far too big and empty for a lone wolf. Derek suddenly misses the burnt-out shell of a house. At least then he could've smashed something and it wouldn't have mattered.


	10. Chapter 10

He doesn't really pay attention to where he's going, he just drives, just gets away from Derek and his bullshit. The Alpha may not want his help but it's not up to him. Stiles is going to help his friends whether they like it or not. 

It's not surprising that he ends up at home. He's had a long day and he's feeling vulnerable. A little quality time with his blanket is just what he needs. 

As he drags himself into his room he starts setting his things down more haphazardly than usual. He tosses his pocket-knife and his dumb-phone down alongside his wallet and house keys. Then he flops down in his desk chair. He's more angry than actually tired, although there is a feeling of bone-weariness in him. 

He ignores it, like he always does. There's a nasty magic book in his bag that he needs to decipher at the very least. The leather is old, stained. Definitely blood and other things he doesn't want to think about grace its pages. There is malice written right into the thing, no doubt about it.

Most of it's overwhelmingly complex, and mostly requires ingredients he can't or won't ever acquire. He keeps an eye out for ash-based spells and though he finds a couple, he really doesn't understand the connection, if there is one. One of them is for a trade of fortune, taking good from one person and exchanging it for the caster's bad luck. Another is for a transmogrification. It takes a whole coven to handle, but apparently it can turn a person and/or animal into some other sort of person and/or animal.

There's a simpler spell inked in on the margins of a drawing, a derivation of a more complex destructive spell. This one only uses blood magic, turning the caster's spilt blood into a corrosive. _useful for breaking into things and mild torture_ is scribbled underneath it.

Stiles has never pretended he's snow white of white witches. He only hesitates a moment before he memorizes the incantation. Breaking into things and mild torture both seem within the realm of shit-he-may-do-this-year. And it might very well give him a weapon that could take even a werewolf by surprise.

Even Derek would have to admit that was a useful spell. Another wave of anger hits him and he grimaces and shuts the book, negative emotions coming easily after having immersed himself so long in its dark pages. He needs a break.

There's a soothing tingle in his peripheral senses. At first he thinks his bed is literally calling him and he laughs, because it wouldn't be the strangest part of his year. But when he turns his head he understands what it is immediately.

He goes to his shelf where he's been hiding the box and digs it out. He should have been more careful, he realizes, when energy sparks in the air over his hands. But it's not a bad energy. Not great, but it's not bad. The anger is hot on his skin still, but it's a hurt too. A desire not to be useless. A sense of loss at Derek's lack of trust in him. And there are other feelings for Derek too, ones he doesn't think about when he can help it. It glows aubergine under his fingertips where it touches the box, then starts to fade as his energies tangle with the heirloom. It's more soothing than he could have anticipated, centering him. He settles back down in his chair and sighs.

Even after everything, Derek had thrown him out like he was… a _groupie_. An unwanted tagalong.

He runs his hands over the box, soaking in the warmth of the ancestral energies. He wishes his dad were home. He'd be able to tell him about it this time. He'd understand why Stiles was upset. Protect and serve would be something his dad would _get_. And everything else… well. He's pretty sure his dad would get that too.

He wishes his mom were home too.

He opens the box and fiddles with the different sigils, feeling their different energies. Their meanings. Each one does something a little different, each is a symbol of a singular thought. Each one, if he concentrates long enough, is a chorus of all the minds that have used it before him. People who have thought that one particular thought, channeling their magic through it to achieve their desired result. Some of them are obvious things, easy to understand. _Small_ is one of them. 

Others aren't so easy. He stares at one, tracing the loop-de-loop shape that starts on one line, then splits off to curve around before it ends with another line that runs parallel to the line beneath it, the one it had originated from. Abruptly he gets it. The workaround. The loophole. The curveball. He feels the trickster's laugh, tastes the illusionist's enigma. Hears his mother's smile and twinkling eyes. 

That's a big jolt.

He scrambles to hold onto that part, the feeling of her energy, of _her_ that's embedded into the bone. She's layered into this one, much more than the others.

Her favorite. 

He wonders which one will be his. If this one will be his because it was hers. It stays in his hand a long time, till he can't really feel the energies anymore, though he knows they're there. Like adjusting to a loud ambient noise. He puts the other things away, but can't seem to put down that one. The loophole. 

It goes in his pocket instead. His stomach churns like it's annoyed with its empty state and he frowns, realizing he hasn't eaten since breakfast really. His dad probably hasn't either. He should go cook something hearty for the both of them, he decides, pushing back from his desk and heading towards the kitchen. He's trying to decide between tuna casserole and hamburger helper, but just as he sets foot on the top of the stairs he hears shouting outside the house. He hears his _dad_. Shouting. Afraid, and angry.

They'd gotten his name and address out of Billy. His _address_. And he'd forgotten that. How could he have forgotten - He bounds down the stairs, but instead of throwing the front door open he detours sharply into the garage and out the side door where he can crouch down and slink along the side of the house to his jeep in the driveway and get a view around the corner.

But everything's wrong. The hood of his jeep is open and the inside is a mess of torn out wires and tubes and broken bits he's not sure what they are. And there's a van at the curb with it's maw open into which his father is being shoved.

Stiles swears under his breath as the men slam his father into the vehicle. The other are heading back into the house. His head is throbbing with adrenaline as he wracks his brain for options. Perhaps if they spread out enough he could break into the van and overcome the remaining guy before the others could get back. The van door is shut tight now, but there's the new spell… 

"The side door!" he hears a voice shout from around the corner behind him. 

There's no time to deliberate. It's a plan, however imperfect. His hand goes to his waist as he prepares to lunge out from cover but - 

His knife. It's not at his belt. He'd taken it off like an idiot when he'd gotten home.

"Damnit," he hisses as men come out from the front door again and he hears the tread of feet on the gravel along the side of the house behind him. He glances around desperately for something sharp. His eyes catch on a piece of twisted metal jutting out from the engine bay of his ruined jeep. He shoves his sleeve up and tears the edge across his still-healing skin. 

Blood gushes out, hot and fast, dripping down the length of his arm to curl around his fingers and spatter on the ground. He catches what he can in his other hand, chanting fast and harsh as he lurches upright. The sound of his voice draws their attention and they begin to sprint his direction.

"Shut him up!" one of them bellows.

But they're too late to stop him. As he speaks the last phrase he flings the blood, throws it at his enemies. Imbued with the force of his magical intent the spray flies much further than it otherwise would. Where the droplets hit they flare with an amber light as they corrode, turning into acid. But though the men scream and his dad shouts for him, it's not enough. He can't take them all. He can't get to the van in time. 

He can't.

Derek was right, he can't even protect himself, his dad.

He runs.

 

-o0o-

 

"Derek!"

He hears it, even though Stiles must be far away for it to be so faint. But it has Derek jerking to his feet and striding for the door. It sounds desperate. Breathless and full of panicked emotion. He throws open the front door and steps onto the porch, staring hard into the night. After a moment he spots him. Stiles is running up through the woods.

"Derek!" he calls again, but this time it sounds somewhat relieved. He's seen him, and Derek steps down from the remnants of his home to meet the younger man.

"Stiles," he says as he nears.

"Derek, they took him!"

"What?"

"They took him. They just fucking came out of nowhere and _took_ him. Damnit I should have been faster. It just happened so…"

The words are tumbling out in a panicked jumble as Stiles half-stumbles against his chest. Derek can smell the scent of Stiles's blood and he cuts through the younger man's words to grab his arm, following the scent in the dim light of the still-rising waxing gibbous moon. 

His sleeve is drenched in blood and Derek growls out a curse as he tugs Stiles with him back up to the house.

"It's nothing, don't worry about that. Derek. Derek, they _took_ him and I couldn't-"

But Derek ignores his protests and pulls him through the doorway into the semi-restored home and leads him to the small front bathroom.

"Derek they took him," Stiles says, voice still shaking as he catches his breath.

"Who?" Derek asks calmly, pushing the younger man down so that he sits on the toilet seat. He kneels in front of him, turning his arm over so he can see the extent of the damage.

"They - they! The... You know. The guys! The bad guys."

Derek purses his lips but doesn't roll his eyes as he usually might. The thread of panic in Stiles's voice tells him it's someone important. He just doesn't know if it's Scott or his father.

The sleeve has fallen back down to cover the wound. He pinches the fabric over Stiles's bicep and pulls, tearing the material. Stiles doesn't even seem to notice when the cotton sticks to the partially dried blood. The cuts are ragged, not neat lines like the ones he'd watched Stiles make saving Erica's life.

"Stiles, who did they take?" Derek asks again calmly but firmly.

Stiles makes a faint hiccupping sound that resolves into an almost hysterical chuckle.

"Oh. You mean... My Dad. They took my Dad." 

"Ok. Ok." he's beginning to wonder if Stiles has lost more blood than he'd initially suspected given the glassy look in his eyes as he stares at nothing, looking right through Derek as he shakes, mumbling about how he couldn't save him, couldn't lose him, and how Derek was right. Derek doesn't understand, but he's not surprised about that. Half the time he doesn't understand Stiles anyway. He wets a rag and slides it gently over the wounds. They aren't deep, just messy. They've all clotted for the most part.

He cleans the wound as Stiles manages to catch his breath a little, the discomfort of it seeming to bring him a little back to himself. Slowly he starts explaining the events that had led him here in this state. The first-aid kit Derek has taken to keeping under the sink for Stiles's benefit gets pulled out, antiseptic wipes and bandages set out.

By the time he's gotten the wound properly cleaned and sterilized, Stiles has stopped shaking. Instead his eyes are narrow and distant, lips pursed with focus.

As Derek trashes the antiseptic wipes and torn sleeve, Stiles gathers himself to move. "Okay. Thanks for the first aid. I'm going back to Redridge. I know Billy knows something."

"Stiles," Derek says with an annoyed sigh. "It's late. It'd be the middle of the night before we'd get there."

"We?" Stiles says with a bitter laugh, hurt rolling off of him more than anger now. 

_Always_ he wants to snap. But he can't. He just glowers and says, "Yes, _we_." An edge of his earlier anger and self-loathing return to crash in alongside the fear. Necessity steamrollers over them all though as he guides himself back on point. "And _we_ don't even know where this guy is at night."

"Then we'll look until we _find_ him!" Stiles snaps, shoving to his feet unsteadily, swaying against Derek's shoulder for balance.

"Hey. No. Stop. We'll find him _tomorrow_. Listen to me. _Listen_ to me," Derek orders and sets his jaw. A firm grip on Stiles's hips pushes him back down on the seat, rather easily despite his resistance. The look he gets for his efforts is sullen to say the least. And that's more than fair. He owes Stiles an apology. More than one. He squeezes the tense muscle under his hand, rubbing his thumb in what he hopes is a soothing manner. After a moment Stiles's pinched expression starts to ease and then he nods curtly.

Derek takes a slow breath and continues now that Stiles is ready to hear him. "The store won't be open now so we'll go first thing in the morning when the shop opens. We will _find_ this guy and we will get some info out of him no matter what, okay?"

Stiles nods again. 

Derek lets his hand slide down from Stiles's shoulder, taking Stiles's forearm gently and laying it against Stiles's thigh again as he opens the roll of sterile bandages. Stiles lets him finish the first aid, and grudgingly submits to Derek's inspection of his other limbs. The lesser cuts on his other arm get a cleaning and bandage too, because given the way their days are going, he'll need the added barrier against infection.

"Okay," he says softly, drawing his hands back before he can linger too long on Stiles's skin. He stands back and then gives Stiles a little help up. It leaves them standing far too close together in the cramped bathroom. 

The tension between them shifts. Derek is abruptly aware of a lot of things. The scent of Stiles's blood thick in the room. The silence save his pounding heartbeat. The scent of _him_ , just inches from Derek.

Stiles swallows, looking up at him, face going still. Derek glances down when Stiles's tongue slips out reflexively to moisten his lips. 

"Derek," Stiles begins softly.

Derek snaps his eyes back up to Stiles's face, feeling his ears burn.

"I'm sorry," he fumbles out. "About what I said before."

Stiles bites down on his lip, eyes flicking away to hide the emotion Derek had glimpsed filling them. "Uh," he clears his throat. "I… Thanks." 

The silence stretches between them and Derek forces himself to back away. "You need something to eat before you pass out."

"Um. Yeah I guess that would be smart," Stiles says, following him to the kitchen.

Derek doesn't even ask, he starts pouring Stiles a glass of orange juice and pokes around hoping that Erica hadn't finished off the rest of the pie. The thought of her has him tensing. No matter how hard he tries to keep it under control, the alert that has been blaring in the back of his mind about his pack comes front and center. He leans his head against the door a moment, then pulls out the pie in question and sets it in front of Stiles with a thump.

They eat in silence, picking away at the quarter of a cherry pie. They take turns staring at each other when the other's not looking, each opening his mouth like he'll say something then changing his mind. But as time goes on they spend less time looking away and more time staring at each other, giving up on using words to communicate because they aren't working well anyway.

When Stiles goes for another bite and his fork comes up empty they stare at it for a confused moment. 

"You need rest. Come on," Derek says, eventually, pushing to his feet and leading the way out into the foyer. "I'll take you home." 

Stiles laughs mirthlessly. "Can't. Cops are all over our place. They think whoever took my dad got us both. Or maybe they think I'll have info. Whatever. They are all up in arms about the murder and desecration cases. They'll never let me go."

Derek stares at the wall a moment as he takes a steadying breath before he says as nonchalantly as possible, "Then sleep here."

Stiles glances skeptically at a half-finished wall. "Where?"

"My bed," Derek says, voice coming out a lot lower and more roughly than he'd intended. Having Stiles in his bed is going to be damned difficult to handle later, when his scent lingers but he does not. But he needs Stiles to stay here, where he's safe. So he'll suffer the consequences when they get to that.

"Your bed," Stiles repeats, face unfathomable.

Derek just turns and leads the way. "Yes, Stiles, believe it or not I actually bought a real full-size mattress."

"I know. I saw it. But what I don't get is why? You basically only sleep in the most inhospitable places known to werewolf. Like broken trains and trees and shit. Won't a mattress be like, anathema to you?" Stiles taunts, sounding a little shaky still but more like his usual self.

Derek sighs as he opens the door to his bedroom. "Contrary to popular belief, being raised by werewolves does _not_ have the same effect as being raised by actual wolves."

He's met with silence where he expects another quip, and then Stiles's voice comes, out of pace and low. "Come on, Derek, even you know there's a better use for your mattress than sleeping on it."

Stiles closes the door behind them, and when Derek turns, he has already stepped closer, eliminating the distance between them, eyes hot and lips parted.

Stiles kisses him. Hard.

Slim yet broad hands grip his jaw as pert lips slide over his own. He is too surprised to do anything but kiss him back, lips parting as the younger man leans into him with all his meager weight. His tongue pushes its way into Derek's mouth and all he can do is moan, stalled between the desperate pull of desire and the knowledge that it isn't right. That it's born of worry and hurt and the desperate need to prove he's alive and not… 

Not… 

He shudders as Stiles's hands slip urgently over his body, pushing towards places that desperately want the attention. The hot, wet pressure of Stiles's mouth is somehow even better than he had imagined. Before Derek even hardly realizes it, Stiles's hands are pulling open the fly of his jeans, fingers desperate and rough and slipping down past the waistband of his under-shorts and closer to Derek's-

He shoves him back, more roughly that he intended, sending the teen backwards against the door.

Stiles looks momentarily shocked, then bitter anger and the hot red flush of embarrassment flood his features.

"Stiles," Derek manages after a moment. "This isn't -,"

"Don't," Stiles's says, voice flat. "I get it. You're not interested. I misunderstood."

"It's not that I-,"

"Just-," he mutters as he shrugs defensively, shoulders sagging. "Please, just don't."

Derek growls in frustration as he closes the distance in the span of a heartbeat and pins Stiles back against the door. Derek's hands are tight on his waist as his eyes go wide in surprise - but not fear. Never fear. 

It almost undoes him right then. 

"Stiles."

Derek swallows, trying to remind himself why he's rejecting the offer. The scent of blood and Stiles and _arousal_ is just too much for him to take. He almost can't resist pressing his face into the curve of Stiles's throat and dragging his teeth over the delicate skin and his eyes fall to the task as his breath comes unevenly. 

He steps back, pulling Stiles with him a step. He turns him and pushes him back till he nears the mattress. Then he lets him go. It's one of the hardest things he's ever done.

But it's the right thing. Stiles is looking back at him, eyes full of want and vulnerability and worry and anger and a kind of desperation that Derek understands all too well.

It's not the right kind.

"Get some rest," he orders, voice gruff. "We'll leave at first light."


	11. Chapter 11

Some time in the middle of the night Derek finally feels able to sleep himself. Somewhere between growing accustomed to the gnawing ache of his missing pack and Stiles falling into a deep enough sleep not to smell like desire, he's able to return to his bedroom. 

It's not sexual, sliding into bed with Stiles. It's about the warmth of simple physical contact, closeness to those on your side. And… whatever else there is between them, there's a sort of trust that runs deeper than the ups and downs of their misadventures and arguments. It's hard to feel like he's ever not known Stiles. 

It's not a good idea, curling his arms around Stiles as he lays there, but it helps numb the pull in his stomach. Stiles doesn't stir Finally he drifts off.

In the morning he wakes well before the sun rises to find the bed empty and his nose filling with the scent of cooking eggs and toasting bread. It's not particularly easy to leave the warmth of his bed with its Stiles-scented fabric, where he doesn't have to disguise the instinct to press his nose into the scent. But the prospect of breakfast, and the personage of Stiles himself is sufficient to draw him out.

It's eerie, the simultaneous near-silence of the mostly-abandoned mansion and the unending roar of everything that's hanging in the balance. 

Stepping out into the foyer intensifies the homey scent of breakfast. And Stiles.

The look he gets when he steps into the kitchen has him pausing. Stiles's eyes are unreadable, pensive as they cast over Derek's face. His lips part to say something, then he changes his mind, brow furrowing as he turns back to the plate he's been dishing out from the skillet. Derek goes to the toaster to drop another pair of slices. 

"I made eggs. I mean, I'm assuming you eat eggs since you have them in your fridge. I hope you like scrambled because that's what I made. You're probably an over-easy kind-of guy though, huh? Scott likes sunny-side-up, which is frankly disgusting but unsurprisingly apt. I bet Peter likes his poached." Stiles lowers the spatula and makes a face. "Actually, I like my eggs poached. Why," Stiles demands with mostly-feigned anguish as he grabs Derek's forearm. "Why am I ever like Peter?"

Derek shares an amused glance with him, but it catches when their eyes meet. It stretches until Stiles clears his throat and turns away to grab the butter dish.

Over the past week everything between them seems to be snapping back and forth. One moment it's a deep thread of tension and the next it's a layer of increased comfort and familiarity. Want. Trust. Back and forth. 

One thing he's noticed is that Stiles touches him more now than he had before this week. It's without thought, without awareness almost. Little things like handing him the butter as he makes breakfast toast and then leaning over him to reach a coffee mug, hand on his shoulder. 

And then just as quickly they'll be back to staring at each other again.

But the tension is closer each time too. They're both clearly aware of it. There's no more hidden glances and feigned ignorance. Stiles had kissed him, had been ready to find physical comfort with him. And though there's an impersonal edge to how far he would have taken it last night, the way Stiles looks at him now… 

"Point is, you get scrambled."

"I like scrambled," Derek mutters as he walks closer, though his attention is on Stiles's rumpled tee more than on the food. It's Derek's shirt, a replacement for the torn and bloodied clothing Stiles had come over with. The short sleeves leave bare his bandaged forearm, which Derek takes carefully instead of the plate Stiles extends towards him.

There's only a little bleed-through, and otherwise it's still clean and neat. Still, he can smell the blood as well as Stiles's pain. 

"I'm fine," Stiles says quietly as Derek checks the bandage. He pulls away from Derek's grasp and carries the plate over to the table.

Derek's so focused on Stiles's injury that it catches him completely off guard when Erica wakes up in a panic. When the other two wake up abruptly after, he doubles over with a grunt of discomfort as the pull to his betas explodes in his belly.

"What is it, what's wrong?" Stiles demands, appearing in his peripheral vision, hands fluttering over the air by his shoulder and arm.

"They woke up," Derek says, forcing himself to straighten. "Nothing else. Just. They were asleep, it was easier."

He stares out the window, claws pressing hard against the countertop. Stiles is looking at the air in front of his belly again but it just makes him feel exposed and useless. He jerks away, interrupting Stiles's vision and grabbing for the plate of toast before going over to the table to eat his breakfast.

But his appetite is gone. He just stares at the plate, taking measured breaths as he tries to control the urge to hunt down his pack.

After a moment, Stiles's footsteps sound softly on the half-finished floor as he walks over joins him at the table. His fingers splay on the wood, thumb picking at the edge of a sliver. He doesn't sit, he leans on his hands, tension leaking through his every line.

"Look, I'll understand if you need to go-," Stiles begins.

Derek glares at him, then back at his plate as he stabs his fork into the eggs. "No. I'm not letting you go alone."

"Derek-"

"I said no!" Derek snaps, shoving away from the plate.

Stiles slams the heel of his hand against the table and turns away, body taut with frustration. His face takes on a defiant and bitter set as he turns back.

"Well maybe I don't want you slowing me down because you're distracted, did you think of that?" he demands, chin raised.

Derek stares at him for a long moment, hurt warring with anger and doubt as he composes his thoughts. And then he realizes that he can see fear in Stiles's eyes. He can see the beginnings of tears welling up and it has him pushing to his feet and closing the distance between them.

Though he stiffens at first, Stiles lets Derek wrap him up into a hug. Within moments Stiles relents and turns into the embrace, face pressing tight against the side of Derek's head. His breaths are shaky as he clings to Derek's body and for a long while, Derek just holds him, lets himself draw his own strength from the physical contact. Eventually Stiles sighs and steps back from the embrace. 

"I'm pretty sure the Camaro is a lot faster than walking," Derek says, teasing gently to break the .

"You say that like I haven't already stolen your keys," Stiles tosses back, though a grin softens the taunt as he swipes his hand over his cheek.

 

-o0o-

The sun is just cresting over the horizon when they find it. Scott frowns as he checks his phone, skimming down the line of worried texts between himself and his best friend that had happened through the night. Stiles and Derek had texted half an hour ago saying they were leaving for Redridge. There's little chance of them turning around now, but he decides he'd rather not risk it, so he doesn't tell them. He pockets it instead and looks over at Allison.

"Do you think they're alright?" Allison asks softly as she switches her small crossbow for her larger compound bow with quick and efficient movements, letting the rigors of practiced procedure override her nerves.

"I don't know," he says, shaking his head. "Derek didn't say anything changed."

She nods and takes a deep breath before exchanging a glance with him and then slipping away towards the shadows. Scott prowls in the other direction, eyes casting around the location that the carefully-laid trail had taken them to. 

The building is old and worn, but every sign points to it, from the way the wildlife has scattered to the too-obvious smear of blood at the industrial double-doors that are visible under the flickering lamp that hangs above a faded sign. Some warehouse or something. Scott doesn't really know about zoning and whatnot. But he does know scents, and that building is holding his friends and his enemies. When he doubles-back he focuses on the surrounding buildings more carefully, looking for other threats beyond the obvious.

Allison comes padding back in her soft boots. Her recon has been a success if the look on her face is anything to go by. Her chin tips back in the direction she'd come from and he follows close behind her, trying to separate the scents of the environment. The musty old rain smell, weeds growing unheeded, rusted metal and dust are prevalent and consistent notes. The others are easier to parse once he understands the background noise a little better.

Allison points up to a raised fire-escape ladder. He steps under it and cups his hands and because she's awesome like that, Allison is already with what he's thinking, leather sole landing in his palms and weight leaning into his. He lifts her up high enough to grab the ladder and waits for her to climb up to the platform before making the leap himself.

It's not as quiet, and the sound feels awfully loud in the empty complex. But after they get to the top and stay silent for a few breathless moments, nothing stirs and they have to hope the thick industrial construction has muffled the sounds of their trespassing. 

He watches in proud awe as Allison picks the lock on the fire door in a matter of moments. His way would have been much louder. She opens the latch and then slowly starts pulling open the old metal plane. It creaks, and the faint dawn light is visible through the gap in the otherwise dark interior. But there's nothing for it and they can do nothing but slip in as quickly and quietly as they can. It lets them in on a catwalk that rings the wall above the industrial floor. Most of the machines are long gone, only rusted remnants behind, but it's still a bit of a maze and their friends aren't easily found. 

Allison spots them first, points them out where they're all huddled behind the cover of an L-shaped bulk of old metal. The pack looks more-or-less unharmed, though the rune-worked metal that binds their limbs to a car battery is bloody in places. Standing around them in a loose curve are two armed men and a tall woman wearing a dark cloak. Near the building entrance there are runes laid in blood-darkened ash, right in the path of anyone rushing straight in. He sighs in relief that they'd managed to convince Derek not to come storming in here alone. Or at all. For all their determination, for all of Stiles's efforts, they were woefully unprepared to deal with so much of the magic that had been hurled their way of late. 

Allison pads out along the catwalk, bow at the ready, arrow nocked and angled towards their enemies. Stalking her prey. She looks powerful and lithe as she moves to a better vantage point and if they didn't have people to save he'd be really turned-on right now. He follows, focusing instead on their options down below. Eventually she drifts to a halt, all three of their enemies in clear sight. She tilts her jaw back his way without ever taking her eyes off their target.

Her voice is soft but confident as she suggests, "Direct confrontation by you, aerial support from me?"

"Give them a chance to walk away?"

She nods, though her arrow doesn't waver from its target; likely a vital organ or three.

He pecks a kiss to her cheek in response and then promptly vaults over the railing to land on a nearby elevated section of machinery. The sound is loud enough to echo, sending their enemies on alert. It doesn't matter, he doesn't need the element of surprise. The opposite, in fact. 

He runs along the machinery towards them and at the corner he punches a flip as he leaps down, landing in what he has come to understand is the appropriate "dramatic werewolf crouch" ™.

See? He's learning.

His grin is disguised when he bares his fangs and flashes his golden eyes at the startled enemy, but makes no further aggressive action. Instead he stands and lifts his chin defiantly.

"We're here for our friends," he says firmly, eyeing the stern-looking woman who seems to be the leader, given her veneer of calm confidence and direct gaze while the other two men glance nervously between Scott and the woman.

"Who are you?" she demands, sounding annoyed and not particularly frightened. Her eyes are cool and unwavering as she stares him down. They are dark and hard things, like faintly-reflective stones set in bronze skin.

"Expecting someone else?" he asks, ignoring the brandished guns. The rest of the pack starts struggling against their bonds at the sight of him. It's mostly useless but it does serve to distract the lackeys and reassure him that they're going to be alright.

The woman's face twists into a deeper frown though she doesn't answer, dark brows furrowing in anger.

"Sorry. In case you were wondering, your really obvious trap has failed. You're not going to get an alpha. He's not coming."

The hard-eyed woman gazes at him for a long moment, then turns her gaze back to the trio of angry wolves. She's not panicking in the slightest and it has the hair on the back of Scott's neck lifting. 

He strides forward a pace, bringing the tension back up as the gunmen flinch. "Listen," he growls. "We could make this bloody, or you can surrender my friends and come out alive. So how about you let them go and I won't have my other friends shoot you in the head."

"What friends?" one of the henchmen sneers. 

Scott tilts his head back on a huff of amusement, corners of his mouth tilting up. 

"You know," he says, voice loud enough to carry. "That's a very fine hat you've got there." It's too perfect to resist, but he abruptly finds himself wishing Stiles were there beside him so he could fist-bump for the reference.

But Allison's got him because a moment later the man's hat is no longer on his head, the lumpen wool hitting the floor with an arrow tucked through it.

The man starts to bluster and brandish his weapon again but the woman cuts him off with a low curse, turning and walking away in a swirl of cloak without a backward glance. The move is unexpected enough that Scott hesitates as her henchmen glance at each other in confusion and then scramble after her. 

He starts to follow them, then pauses, wary as a gun-barrel swings his way again.

"Scott?" Allison calls down, just as uncertain. She's a lot more likely to shoot people first than he is, but unknown human henchmen are a lot more likely to end up dead when shot by her hunting tips and homicide is a little more difficult to explain. 

But he also doesn't want them coming back again. He makes his decision and starts after the woman, bounding down the space between two machines and leveraging himself up the wall of one to leap over the heads of the stumbling henchmen in favor of catching their leader. But she's prepared for him and her escape route hadn't been chosen at random. She twists when he snarls at her to stop, flinging out a hand and a few strange words. The ash symbol stretched on the floor flares to life, a flash-bomb of white fire that has Scott stumbling backwards. His vision is blurred and his ears are ringing as he fights for his balance. When his vision clears, all that's left is the swinging door of the warehouse entrance.

Scott stands there a baffled moment, glancing down in surprise at the small hole in the sleeve of his tee where a bullet had punctured the fabric and grazed his skin, but he's got bigger priorities right now, so he skips back a step to turn to help his friends instead. 

 

-o0o-

 

They're on a stretch of highway, going far faster than they ought to be, cutting around the slower commuter traffic with a determination that would be reckless for those of lesser reflexes. It's fine, until in a rush, Derek feels a spike of startled awareness and threat from Boyd and misses a gear change as he swerves back into a more open lane. Stiles swears as his head bounces against the window but the car shuddering is unimportant in comparison to the change in Derek's bond to his pack. 

Stiles doesn't interrupt and he's glad because he has to concentrate hard to not get them killed as he tries to understand what's happening. There's a pressure building in his throat as he grips the wheel, a desperate need to protect his pack. But almost before it can really get started, tension is replaced by an almost palpable relief. Abruptly, the bond is better. It's lighter and softer and though it's still a bit raw, he knows they're okay now. The car growls in response as he shifts gears and accelerates more smoothly as he sighs heavily in relief and turns to tell Stiles that something has changed. 

Stiles is already staring at him, fingers braced against the dash and brows furrowed as his eyes dart over Derek's face, trying to read him. When his phone rings he fumbles it in a bit of a panic. His relief is nearly palpable when he hears Scott's voice sounding through the little phone speaker to announce that the Betas have been found. That they're safe now. Stiles repeats Scott's reassurances for Derek's benefit, though he heard it perfectly the first time. He can also hear his pack talking in the background. It's all the reassurance he needs, so he goes back to concentrating on the road.

Stiles and Scott fire back and forth rapidly, only bothering to finish half their sentences since each other catches the meaning almost immediately.

"Did you see-"

"No. There's no sign of your dad Stiles." 

There's murmuring in the background as Allison explains things the others have missed while in captivity. 

Stiles heaves a sigh and pushes a hand over his mouth before saying, "Okay. Thanks. Is there-"

"I'm so sorry man, but he's not here. Never has been. Are you-"

"Fine. Where are-"

"Not sure. We're going to get out of here and maybe try and find someplace safe to regroup. Maybe start doing some patrols I think. Do you think I should come-"

"No. By the time you'd get here…" 

"Yeah. Oh, by the way, she used some magic when she was escaping. If that tells you anything."

"Yeah maybe," Stiles says, frowning. "Maybe. Shit. I don't even know if the people who took my dad are the same people that took the pack."

"I don't know if it means anything, but it was the woman from before, the one who shot me," Erica says, voice rough from the strain of capture. 

"Couple of others too. Recognized their scents up close. But there were a couple others who were new that came by. I think. I wasn't entirely conscious at the time," Boyd says.

"There were only three of them here though when Allison and I got here. So the others-"

"Probably doing something nefarious and/or with my Dad somewhere," Stiles finishes, casting a grim glance Derek's way.

"Yeah. So be careful, alright?" The worry in Scott's voice is naked and shows that he is, as always, more than well aware of how far Stiles is willing to go.

Stiles just gives him a grunt in response, which isn't all that surprising to anyone listening. Scott sighs.

"Okay, well, we're gonna-"

"Yeah. Keep me posted," Stiles agrees. He ends the call and tucks his phone away again, but rather than being calmer at the good news, his tension increases. His fingers move over anything in reach, tapping and pressing against lines and grooves as his mind turns over all the upcoming dangers. It's not the easy, humorous patterns of his mental music and excess energy but the expression of a barely contained panic. And when Derek scents fresh blood in the car he realizes it's starting to do more harm than good. At that point Derek reaches over and grabs one of Stiles's hands, pushing it down to rest on his knee instead of fussing with his bandage.

Stiles makes a face at him, but takes the hint and at least sits back in the chair a little more calmly as they approach Redridge. Derek remembers the way but Stiles points out the turns anyway like it will get them there faster. He dampens his instinct to mock or argue the point and instead lets Stiles have whatever illusion of control he can in this untenable situation.

"Do you think they know we're coming?" Stiles asks, fingers drumming against the edge of his seat.

Derek downshifts and turns onto the penultimate road to their destination. "You maybe. I don't think they'll be expecting me."

Stiles hums his consideration, eyes fixed on their destination and lip getting worried between his teeth. "Come on, come on," he mutters under his breath as they near the strip mall, but Derek slows anyway, eyes on the surroundings, looking for threats. But with none apparent, he takes them the rest of the way to the comic-book store without further delay lest Stiles try and get out of the car in his impatience. As it is he's already out the door before the engine's stopped, slamming it behind him as he marches for the shop door.

Derek, still wearing his seatbelt, scrambles to get after him but Stiles is already inside the store by the time he gets out of the Camaro. He curses under his breath and runs the last few steps to yank the shop door open and follow Stiles into hell or high-water, but the urgency goes abruptly flat because Billy isn't there in the quiet and empty shop. Instead, behind the counter is a bored looking redhead with a tee shirt that says 'talk to the hand' in the form of a live-long-and-prosper iconic gesture.

"Where's Billy?" Stiles says, striding over to the counter.

"He, uh, called in sick," she says, frowning and adding air quotes around the last word. "He sounded really weird though. But you know, definitely not sick, the little shit." 

Derek moves quietly into the shop, scanning for threats in the surroundings Stiles has again neglected.

"What's his address?" Stiles demands, slapping his palms down on the glass. 

She plucks her coffee cup up off the suddenly-precarious counter and glances up at Derek, assessing his presence and shrugging nervously. "Sorry, I don't know it. I don't know him outside of-"

"Do you know anyone who does?"

She shakes her head, "I'm pretty new-"

Stiles makes a frustrated noise, shoving roughly back from the counter. He pushes past Derek's staying hand and storms out, door slamming hard enough against the little bell to leave it jangling in harsh tones. 

Derek moves to follow, but the clerk blurts, "Hey! Jeez, if you'd let me get a word in edgewise, he left this note."

He jerks back toward her, shoes squeaking on the nasty beige tile. He approaches with what he hopes is obvious caution, though her jittery nervous behavior doesn't ease as he reaches out, taking the extended piece of paper. Derek looks at her wide eyes, then gives her a sharp nod before backing away to follow Stiles out the door. He pushes the door open, reading the paper.

_I don't want any trouble. I didn't give you this, okay?_

Underneath is an address for a motel in Hillsboro. Stiles is just standing in the middle of the parking lot. His fists are clenched tight at his sides, shoulders limp in defeat. Derek approaches and sets a hand on Stiles's shoulder, easing him around to face him. Stiles looks numb. Wooden. His eyes are glassy with unshed tears as he takes ragged breaths.

"Stiles. There's an address."

Stiles blinks at him, eyes finally focusing on his face. Then he snatches the paper out of his hand, already striding for the Camaro.

"Stiles, wait," he says.

Stiles ignores him, jerking the door open and sitting down.

Derek sighs in annoyance and goes and gets in the driver's side. "We need a plan."

"Sure. Simple plan. We go there and spring their trap, then rip their throats out. How's that sound?" Stiles snaps, throwing Derek's words back at him. He follows it up by reaching into Derek's pocket without so much as a by-your-leave and prying his car keys out. He shoves them into the key well and makes a supercilious 'get on with it' gesture.

Derek rolls his eyes but starts the car anyway.

"We need a better plan than that. Maybe call-"

Stiles glares at him. "I'm not waiting. Hillsboro is closer to Redridge than Beacon Hills. There's no time to go have a pow-wow with the pack. Damnit, there's no time. You know as well as I do that the longer they have him the worse it's going to be."

He does know, first-hand. He frowns at Stiles but his annoyance falters at the determination in Stiles's face and the way it barely covers his fear.

"Please," Stiles whispers, voice cracking on the word.

He doesn't argue the point. The Camaro growls deep and throaty as Derek lets it loose, putting the hundreds of horsepower to work again without hesitation. 

They drive in silence for a couple dozen miles, heading straight for the small town in question. There's a thick tension in the air, Stiles's anger and fear rolling off of him in waves. The highway is relatively empty, however, making the journey quick as possible, the trees flying by in a blur of dark green that cradles the stretch of asphalt.

Derek focuses on the drive, and on whatever plausible scenarios his mind can work up. He knows his fair share about motels, what with the time Laura and he had spent on the road. There are only a few common layouts, but that just might work to their advantage. 

Not that he thinks they're going to have much advantage at all.

He glances over at Stiles, eyes skimming over his face's grim lines and his tight posture, then down to the bandages that are stained with more red than he'd like. But he's not surprised. Not until Stiles opens his mouth a few minutes later.

"Pull over," Stiles says.

Derek looks at him and after a moment of weighing Stiles's expression, he complies, taking the turn-off to a rest area that Stiles points out. But when they pull in to park, Stiles doesn't get out to stretch or head to the bathroom. He just sits there, arms crossed, face tight. His eyes remain fixed on the dash while his mind works over the problem of whatever it is he has to say.

For a while Derek waits for him, and then, cautiously, reaches out to set a hand on Stiles's shoulder. Because they do that now. Stiles accepts his touches and offers his own to Derek. And this time… Stiles deflates at the touch, tension leaking out of his body as Derek holds onto his shoulder. Stiles's head tilts back against the headrest and he closes his eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath. He takes another, then clears his throat before he pushes his legs against the footwell and straightens his body again.

"There are things I should say to you," Stiles says softly. "Before my stupid un-plan gets us killed," he adds with a mirthless laugh. He scrubs a hand over his face. "God this is so stupid."

"I know," Derek replies after a moment, words encompassing everything Stiles has said. What they're doing… it's not going to end well. But he can't see any other way, not without putting the Sheriff in greater danger than he already is. With enemies like these, the warnings will be harsh and few. And as for the first part…

Stiles looks over at him and he feels it, straight to his gut. Stiles reaches out like he can feel that too, fingers curling around the edge of his jacket where it hangs open over his stomach, holding him steady as he leans in. He tilts his head, eyes focusing on the space between them. 

"Even when there's no magic on it, sometimes I can almost see it, you know. Like, it's just out of the corner of my eye."

Derek twists his brows down as he stares at the air, at the invisible lines that bind them together. They've been woven more tightly, with more complexity of late. He doesn't have to be a magic user to see that. 

The hand he has on Stiles's shoulder slides up to his collar, seeking the point where it opens to bare skin. "I know what you mean."

"I _feel_ it," Stiles begins, looking back up at his eyes, holding his gaze as he takes a shaky breath. "But you know that too," Stiles murmurs, closing the distance between them.

This time when Stiles kisses him it's not rushed or desperate, though there is a determination, an intensity in him that's been simmering for days. For months perhaps. It's slow and without artifice or goals of seduction. There's just the heat of their lips joining together, slipping apart to reveal smooth wet skin inside the range of seeking tongues. They taste each other, map each other's mouths with a deep-seated urge to _know_. 

It's a heady, desperate thing at the same time that it's achingly gentle and quiet. Stiles's fingers slide against his ribs, curling into the grooves in the muscle to hold onto him and draw him closer. Derek's hand slides across the soft fabric of his own shirt on Stiles's body and comes to rest over the space above his heart. 

Stiles leans his forehead against Derek's as he breaks the kiss. The contact is warm, where the air around them is cool, and in this moment Derek knows that he's never been truly warm like this before. 

There are a lot of things they could say, things they could ask, but there are too many other things going on this day that would make any answers moot. So he just holds on, for as long as Stiles is willing to let them tarry.

They share just another three breaths before Stiles sits back. It's not long enough, but it's all they can spare.

"I shouldn't ask you to come with me. But I'm a selfish bastard," Stiles says with a self-deprecating grimace as he pulls up his phone's GPS. 

Derek just starts the car again, but he leaves his hand on Stiles's arm until he needs it to drive. 

 

As is the way of dreaded things, they're at the address almost as quickly as it feels to blink. To Stiles's frustration, Derek circles the block before pulling into the lot. But there's no sign of anything in the perimeter so Derek gives up stalling and parks on the street a little ways back from the buildings.

They walk up the broken sidewalk to the grungy span of parking lot that the buildings frame. The ugly motel sign isn't even lit. It looks abandoned. Shut down. In fact… 

"I have a _really_ bad feeling about this place," Stiles says, speaking aloud Derek's feeling. But it doesn't stop him from walking forward along the parking-lot towards the room number in question.

Derek wants to suggest they leave, but he knows it's pointless. They have no options, not with Stiles's dad's life on the line. Still, the setup is just too off. He huffs an annoyed breath and then opens his mouth to speak.

Whatever he might have said turns out to be moot anyway, because the next step they take sets of a chain of events. First Stiles stumbles, eyes going wide as he jerks into a defensive position which Derek mirrors automatically, even though there's nothing he can sense. 

The motel door in question opens at the same time that there's a sort of pop as the world around them goes hazy, then bright with a flare of fire. He spins on his heel, ready to grab Stiles and retreat, but the flames are full-circle around them. 

Before he can make the decision to test the barrier, Stiles is shouting behind him. He spins back just in time to see a sprawling disk of energy flying through the flames towards them, dragging the fire with it in long golden strands. Stiles throws up a defensive hand, but the energy just slams into him, tearing a cry of pain from him as the energy continues unchecked and barrels into Derek too.

"Stiles!" he shouts - or tries to shout. It comes out as more of a strangled groan as the fire courses through him.

It's not literal fire, there's no scent of burning flesh, but it certainly _feels_ like it; hot, suffocating, overwhelming.

Stiles's body hits the pavement hard in a boneless heap. Derek falls more slowly, but he falls nonetheless, first to his knees, then face-down into the sun-hot asphalt. It feels almost cool in the wake of the magic fire. Or perhaps that's the blackness of unconsciousness edging into his senses. It doesn't matter. He fights it. Fights to get back up.

He makes it as far as twisting his head up and moving a clawed hand a few inches towards Stiles. Nothing else in his body responds.

There are two pairs of feet standing at the ashen edge of the circle. "What did I tell you?" the mage who'd attacked them murmurs to his companion.

The other man grunts an annoyed sound, but says grudgingly, "You said the boy would come to us. I guess I'll be buying dinner."

The man lets out a pleased hum. "Though in fairness, I do have to admit I didn't expect him to _bring_ us the Alpha. Serendipitous indeed."

"Well," the man says as Derek realizes he's about to resoundingly lose the battle with consciousness. 

"Shall we?" 

And everything goes black.


	12. Chapter 12

When Stiles regains consciousness he groans faintly before he can stop himself. It hurts, whatever magic thing the guy had thrown at him. And it's a deep sort of pain, aching to his bones. He wonders how bad it would be if he hadn't tried to shield himself - not that he actually knew how, but it worked in all the books and he _had_ felt _something_. Not that it had done much good since he is now facedown in the dust in a puddle of drool. The floor is fucking cold, concrete leeched of any heat from disuse and nighttime air. 

He takes a slow breath, blinking away the haze in his vision as his systems start to come back online. When he focuses on the logo painted on the concrete slab beneath him he grunts in annoyance. It reads, in faded letters, 'Fish 'n Bits'.   
"Seriously?" he mouths to himself, staring at the mark. It would appear that they're in a the disused factory or warehouse for the now-defunct cat-treat company. He'd seen the logo before though his magic. He'd even looked it up, for all the good it had done him.

With the dim light and awkward angle he can't see much of anything. Playing dead is a useful strategy, he knows, but he struggles to his knees anyway despite the tape now binding his wrists behind him, swearing under his breath. He needs to know more about what's going on.

"Good, you're awake," a rich and accented voice says. It is soft, and patient in its cadence. Dangerous. He can't place the native accent, but it has 'Oxford Educated English' written all over the top of it. He twists his head around trying to place the man in the dark. Instead his eyes fall on Derek's bound form, laying sprawled on the concrete. His eyes are bright with awareness however, staring hard at Stiles. Derek is bound much more thoroughly - zip-ties and rope, as well as duct-tape over his mouth.

Derek's eyes flick over to one side of the darkness pointedly and Stiles turns his head to watch as a dark-cloaked figure steps from the shadows and into the glow of the single lightbulb. 

"I am Hakeem."

His features aren't particularly arresting. An unimpressive face, a plain haircut. His eyes, however, are dark and potent, gazing down at him through thick dark lashes. His beard is neat and smooth.

"Before we get started with the important things, I am curious, did I catch you off guard? After all, it was not my intent to knock you so thoroughly unconscious. You, novice though you may be, should have been able to block most-"

"Not to interrupt your evil monologuing or anything, but how about you go fuck yourself," Stiles spits.

The reaction is instantaneous, a sharp backhand across his cheekbone that sends him reeling, vision going blurry again at the edges. The laughter that accompanies it is darkly amused.

"Spirited, aren't we? As I was saying, I was disappointed. You Americans, always going for the flashy stuff and skipping the basics - and mixing the arts too!" he tsks. "No respect for tradition. Your mentor really hasn't taught you very well," the man muses, eyes hard as they gaze down at Stiles.

Stiles just glares at him, not letting his lack of understanding show through. He may be feeling so far out of his depth that he wants to throw up, but he's not giving the guy the pleasure of knowing that.

"But then you're young yet," he admits, a gloved hand coming down to cradle the line of his chin. Stiles tries to jerk back but the grip is solid and his strength is still unsteady at best. The leather strokes over Stiles's skin, then brushes under his lip. "And such a pretty mouth, too," he murmurs.

The sound Derek makes behind the duct-tape gag is nothing short of a growl. 

"The better to bite your hand off with," Stiles taunts around the split in his lip.

The man makes a noncommittal sound, though he draws his hand carefully out of reach. "I can see you'll be resistant to physical means of coercion. It is well that I have prepared other means since I won't have time to break you... Properly," Hakeem says, casting a dark and possessive glance over Stiles's body. 

He snaps his fingers and after a moment another pair of figures emerge from the shadows, dragging a slumped figure between them who they dump on the ground in the edge of the lightbulb's reach.

Stiles isn't really surprised that the man is his father.

But if the man had thought the sight of his father, bruised and bloodied, would bring him to a state of willingness, then he was horribly mistaken. Stiles sets his jaw. He already knows the situation is a matter of pragmatics. If someone is willing to kill you for not doing something, then there's little reason for them not to kill you anyway in the end. He knows enough to know that if the price involves their lives it is already too late to survive it playing by the enemy's rules.

But there is a chance he can bargain one chip away.

"Let Derek go. You've got my Dad. You know that's leverage enough on me for whatever it is you want," Stiles says, voice hard.

"Is that its name?" the man muses, pacing over towards Derek, though he's careful in keeping a safe distance. He tilts his head. "Ah well, I'm afraid the alpha was our main purpose in coming here to…" he tilts his head, thinking before saying in a tone that speaks of mild distaste, "Beacon Hills."

Stiles had been sure that his heart couldn't sink any lower, but at that pronouncement… he closes his eyes briefly, sucking in a slow breath. The lack of options makes him almost nauseous with fear.

"You were just an unexpected and extraordinary find," Hakeem says.

He meanders over to one of the other people, a man who regards him with a slow smirk. "After all, it's no fun using up one of your own apprentices. Too much investment wasted - and it makes the survivors… edgy," he adds with a dismissive flick of his fingers, setting the smirk to fading.

Stiles sneers. "No shit Sherlock. But why me? Why my dad? What the hell did we ever do to you?"

Hakeem turns a surprised glance on him. "Nothing."

Stiles stares at him, mouth hanging open before he huffs an annoyed sigh. "So basically you're just evil."

But Hakeem just laughs as he turns away and moves back into the darkness towards a stack of crates on one side of the room being used as a low table. 

"Evil? No. Just… utilitarian. You have something we want. We're taking it. Simple as that."

Stiles can't see what Hakeem is doing, so he glances back at Derek. He doesn't ask if he's okay, since Derek can't answer, and the answer is relatively obvious, anyway. Stiles takes a steadying breath, reminding himself that rudeness and sarcasm are already moot. Given the man's calm, controlled manner, he suspects that pissing off Hakeem would merely be deadly rather than cause the man to slip up. So he shifts tactics as well as his weight further back on his heels, assuming a more submissive posture. "So Hakeem, I was wondering, because I really haven't been able to figure this one out. What's with kidnapping the betas and then letting them go?"

"Oh, that was intentional. There's no need to be wasteful, to kill them. We just needed to borrow them a little to try and lure it out," he says, moving closer to Derek and gazing disdainfully down at him as he sprinkles some substance over the restrained Alpha's prostrate form. "After all, who knows. One of them might develop into an Alpha down the road."

Like they're a crop to be harvested. Suddenly the blunt edge of a Hunter's hatred doesn't seem so insidious in comparison. Hakeem turns away from Derek, walking away back into the dim edges of the room. "We've been looking a long time for an alpha vulnerable enough to take. A Were on its own isn't a tough creature to bring down, but an alpha's never far from its pack. But this pack is young. Weak. It was easy enough to separate them and set all their packing instincts raging."

Hakeem turns back to Stiles, coming forward with an old book in hand. His minion carries a crate after him and sets it down near the logo on the concrete. Hakeem holds the book up so Stiles can see it. 

"Enough chatter. I need you to work a spell for me. You say the words, work the lines, and you pay the price for me. In return, I'll let your father go." He tilts his head a moment, then adds, "And the Were, if he survives. Though in fairness, I should tell you that his survival is highly unlikely."

He waits expectantly as Stiles stares him down, face twisting at the bitter feeling in his throat. He takes a disgusted, furious breath and then nods. It's not hard to do the numbers on this one.

With a gesture, Hakeem directs the man towards the shadows again. He bows and moves away, joined by the other minion - a woman, Stiles can see now as she steps further into the light. Hakeem carries the book to the crate and sets it carefully before turning and walking around behind Stiles. When he reaches for his bound wrists, Stiles flinches, but the man's grip is firm as he uses something sharp to sever the duct tape. He moves smoothly back to a safe distance as Stiles shrugs his arms back into their normal position, his shoulders aching.

After a moment he draws himself to his feet, taking slow breaths to steady himself when he goes a little light-headed. He focuses on pulling the rest of the tape from his wrists, trying to calm his breathing and check his mangled bandage for further injury. The minions work at Hakeem direction, hefting sacks and bringing them into the light so they can see their contents. They open them. One set looks to contain a gritty blend of herbs and ash and… blood. Probably stolen ashes. The blood supply, the original grave desecrations, they all make sense now. 

They select one pair of bags and begin to make a huge outer circle - it looks like rock salt, Stiles decides. That would be appropriate for containment. 

"Put him outside," Stiles demands, voice cold as he points at his father who seems to be only barely hanging onto consciousness. "I don't know what the hell we're doing, but I do know I want him outside that circle."  
And it's a mandatory thing. Because if Hakeem refuses, then that means he doesn't plan to hold to his deal of letting his dad go when it's over anyway. 

Hakeem eyes him a moment, then tips his head magnanimously. "Do as he asks," he says to the two men as they finish the outer salt circle. It may just be a calculated deception, but it's something. It's the best Stiles can do. He swallows back his fear.

They obediently lift the sheriff and step him over outside the circle, propping him up against a crate. Then they step back inside and come to stand near Hakeem. He hands them each a small vial of liquid, which they immediately uncork and tip back. Hakeem turns to Stiles, handing him a vial as well. 

"Drink," he says firmly. 

Stiles glares at him but takes the little glass tube. "Catalyst?" he asks, and receives a nod in the affirmative. He grimaces and uncaps it, bringing the glass edge to his lips. He takes a steadying breath, then forces himself to tilt his head back and pour the crimson liquid down his throat. He does his best not to taste it or speculate as to its contents. With a contented smirk, Hakeem does the same. When they're empty, the woman takes them, her tightly-braided blond-dyed hair swinging as she strides to the edge of the circle and chucks them out into the shadows. They shatter somewhere in the dark. 

"The outer circle is ready to be closed," she says, her accent heavily Jamaican. She doesn't even spare Stiles a glance. Hakeem nods regally in response to her implied query. 

Stiles watches as the others follow her to the edge of the great outer circle, then reach out, forming a ring with their hands. Hakeem stretches a toe back to touch the salt as they chant a brief invocation. And with that contact, the circle is closed.

Though he can't _see_ any change, Stiles _feels_ it, like a faint electromagnetic charge to the air. The energies and people inside the circle are cut off from the energies outside. Outside where his dad is. It's not much but maybe his dad will regain consciousness soon enough to crawl away. He knows his acquiescence is likely doing no more than buying his father time, but that's a hell of a lot more than he would have to work with otherwise.

Hakeem strides back over and points at the book as the minions move back to the center of the circle to retrieve the remaining sacks of grit. 

"Read it. Learn it. Any mistakes could be very bad for all of us," he says, opening it to the page in question.

Stiles huffs an angry breath through his nose but he looks down at the book where the Latin is hand printed in clear block letters, the English translation in smaller print below it.

He starts to read.

In his peripheral vision he watches as they pour. Their motions look steady and practiced, and if he weren't so pissed he'd appreciate the fact that they were able to draw such perfect shapes freehand with heavy bags of dust.  
They move in a coordinated arc to form a small, perfect circle in front of Stiles, next to the crate holding the book. He reads carefully, trying to understand the intent behind the lyrical words as the apprentices each go their separate ways, drawing connecting lines from Stiles's circle outwards. They make three circles all connecting into the back half of Stiles's circle. Then they draw a thick line forward from Stiles to Derek, circling the angry and struggling alpha. 

Partway through the spell the writing changes. The spell has been altered to suit Hakeem's purposes. Between the lines on the concrete and the words he reads… he understands it, but even still he shakes his head in disbelief at Hakeem. 

"Do you comprehend?"

"You're… you're going to steal his power?" Stiles blurts incredulously. "Why don't you just ask for the bite? Shit!"

The man laughs. "And lose most of my own power? I think not. And I'm not after all of the Were's powers," he says, walking closer to where his minions are finishing their circle around Derek. He narrows his gaze on the flash of crimson that Derek fixes on him. "I have no wish for fangs or red eyes or excessive amounts of hair," he says with marked disdain.

He motions to his apprentices and they cast their empty bags aside, closing in behind him. Then they're surging forward and hauling Derek to his feet, despite his thrashing. The bindings keep him from having any leverage at all, really. There's a glint of reflection in the faint light as Hakeem draws a long and wicked knife from his robes. He tilts his head with a covetous smile. 

"But his regenerative powers…"

He shoves the knife into Derek, straight into his gut.

"What is that quaint English phrase? You do not have anything if you do not have your health," he rambles as Derek groans through the gag, bent over in pain, only held in place by the two henchmen. He has no mechanism of defense as Hakeem stabs him again and again. The sounds Derek makes are almost physically painful to his ears, and the sight of so much blood has Stiles gulping back a choking breath.

"Stop," Stiles pleads despite himself, voice raw with tears, breaking over the word.

As Hakeem withdraws the blade again he frowns in consideration, watching the thick ribbons of blood sliding down Derek's skin and soaking into his jeans. He nods after a moment and then strides away, sheathing the knife and taking position in the nearest circle behind Stiles.

The minions drop Derek and the wounded alpha hits the concrete on his knees, breathing in ragged pants through his nose as his body knits struggles to the damage together.

"Begin," Hakeem demands, but Stiles is staring at the hunched form before him.

If he refuses, they all die. But if he does it, it's just him that dies. Probably Derek. Maybe not his dad. 

Derek turns flashing red eyes on Stiles, pain and fear and... Trust. And understanding. Resignation gazing out at him. He nods. The spilling blood is slowing as his wounds slowly close.

Stiles takes a shaky breath, blinking back his tears. 

"Do it now, or I will have to hurt him more to trigger the regeneration again."

Stiles closes his eyes for a moment, taking a shaky breath, then dips his head and steps forward into the circle.  
The sticky residue of the duct tape pulls at the hair on his wrists as he yanks his borrowed tee off. There is a sound of amusement behind him, but he ignores it as he casts the fabric aside. It just feels better, more clean when he does magic with his tattoos bare. 

Then there's nothing left but to start.

Staring at Derek he brings his hands up in front of him, then pushes his palms against each other hard. For him, using the move is like a physical representation of focusing his energy. It gives him an internal point of concentration and power, helps to shut out the world around him. It's the same for the matching celtic knots on his shoulders and the focus symbol on his chest. As his concentration starts to settle he traces the lines of his focusing tattoos in his mind, winding through the ink that's part of him now. With each steady breath he pushes and concentrates until everything slows. 

Unimportant sounds grow muffled. Important ones magnify.

The sound of his father's heart beat.

The splatter of drops of Derek's blood.

The rasp of his own breath.

Like always, he holds onto those sounds, then goes further, goes beyond focus and into the realm of magic. But this time something's different. Maybe it's the circles, or the acrid catalyst churning in his belly, but all of the sudden, everything, _everything_ is silent. Frozen. 

_Infinite_. 

His lungs expand with a breath that never ends. 

A drop of blood hangs in the air. 

Then the world drops out from under him, energy rushing through him, the forces of gravity and light and heat all acting as lines of power instead.

He feels the life energy of the people around him, the churning engine of millions of tiny explosions that their cells made to keep them moving. The lines that glow around the mages are dark and intricately twisted with flashes of jewel-toned colors. Hakeem's is the most intricate of all. It's organized, almost, tightly bound to him. Controlled.

And Derek… 

Derek's beautiful, wreathed in strands of light that are unique to him, and totally different from the others in the room. They are unalloyed. Bright and wild. There are arcs of red all over, stretching out from his heart. Gold ones float around his hands and mouth and flare out wildly from his ears and brow. His eyes glow like molten metal, hot and shimmering. The triskele tattoo is, oddly, a deep, vivid aubergine.

The majority of the lines, however, run from Derek's heart down to his belly where the wounds are slowly knitting. He's seen the pattern before when he'd healed Erica, though not so vividly. It had been more of an impression then, of tangled red lines of healing stretching from her heart to her shoulder and neck.

There's also a long, silvery line that runs away from Derek and straight to Stiles. It's only half-visible, but it looks solid just the same.

He glances down at himself, making a soft sound at the sight of the fiery colors that slip and tangle near his skin. There are different colors touching his tattoos, lighting their brands in his skin. Hints of deep purple and vivid green, electric blue and ruby red. They pop in and out, merging with the greater flow of amber light that surrounds him. The air around him is a cascade of energies, all pushing and shifting around each other. It's overwhelming. He can't see the mundane things, like the dim light in the room or the crate with the spell book.

"You're wasting time," Hakeem's voice calls out, intruding on his world. 

He shakes himself, trying to focus. Below him there are the shapes sketched out on the concrete, a dull dusky grey, colors absent. Slowly he kneels and reaches out to touch the circle, and a flood of electric blue energy spreads throughout the shapes like fire over gasoline. The circle he's standing within allows him to focus, to see reality layered over magic once more. He can see the words on the book before him. 

He takes a breath. There's no time left, no time to stall. Closing his eyes for a moment he steels himself, then begins speaking the words, slowly and carefully, mind racing. 

There aren't any options. 

He's the only one who can save them. 

He doesn't know what he should do. 

But he knows what he must do. As the words of the spell speak of binding him to the creature's power, he extends a hand, his own amber energy stretching along the gritty line to tangle in with the red strands. The spell calls the power to him and he pulls. 

They're stubborn at first, knotted tightly over Derek's body. Derek can feel it, he can tell by the way his body twists away from the spliced threads of power. But Stiles says the words over and over again, pulling on the lines until in a sudden rush he begins pulling the power from Derek.

Derek, despite the inevitability, fights it. Whether on instinct or on purpose, he thrashes. He tries to Were, to howl, to cling to everything he's made of. Everything he's always been. He fights so hard. It's horrifically futile. Stiles's powers are overriding to a degree he'd never anticipated could happen.

Piece by piece, he tears Derek apart with his mind and the words tumbling off his lips. Though Stiles is doing his damndest to be careful, selectively pulling on the lines that seem to represent his powers of regeneration, it's not something that can really be separate. They're a part of Derek's whole, his essence as a born wolf. Yanking those lines free pulls other strands taut and tangled. They strain under the pressure, and then one by one begin to snap.

Derek howls as they do, screams as that which makes him werewolf begins to break under Stiles's hands. The teeth, the ears, they fade. As the Were side of him deflates, the wound opens up again, blood gushing out onto the concrete. Derek crumples, skin going pasty pale in shade, eyes wide and glassy. A broken gurgle sounds in his throat in a sad parody of an Alpha's roar.

Though he hates it, the power flooding into Stiles is a rush, so hard and fast and filling him with physical sensation it's a kind of ecstasy. The torn flesh of his forearm under the bandage starts knitting fast. A moan wells up in his throat, but the words are running in the back of his head, spilling from his mouth automatically as though they aren't really the mechanism for the spell at all.

The rush is overwhelming. He wants to lose himself in the flow, but he scrabbles for control, trying desperately to relinquish his hold on some of the red tendrils. The flow is through him but he manages a little control over energies which are uniquely his, threads he tries to weave into Derek's, trying to reinforce them with his own power.

But even as he gets the first knots formed, the spell changes and the power tips. Immediately the overflowing power begins to drain out of him along the lines behind him as the words of the spell turn him into a conduit. He feels his _own_ life energy waver and then buckle. He's felt it before, when he gives part of himself to a spell, but this time is orders of magnitude more. His lifelines begin to flow, protecting the red lines of Derek's regenerative power, paving their way along the lines till they begin to tangle with the lines of energy of the people behind him. This is what Hakeem had meant, paying the price.

In the original incarnation of the spell, the stolen power is supposed to go to Stiles. The spell has been bastardized, connecting him to three outputs, making him the conduit for all the power in the room. He feels like a sweater with a loose thread being pulled; coming quickly unraveled. The wounds on his arm start splitting again, blood pouring into the bandage and dripping down his shaking fingers. 

And suddenly he understands that between the three of them they'll easily be able to take every spark of life he and Derek have. In fact, given the way he's feeling, with energy rushing and ripping through him, he's going to blow like an overloaded transformer when the power holding him together runs out along with Derek's stolen energy. 

He finds himself hoping that his runs out before Derek's, leaving at least a little for the alpha to survive on. 

Would he even be an alpha anymore? It doesn't really matter.

He pulls hard, trying to choke the flow into him from Derek to give him at least a _chance_ at surviving. Trying to hold onto the lines… It's like grabbing hold of a rapidly-slipping rope and burning his hands, while simultaneously trying to run in water - only worse. But when he falls to one knee, gasping for breath, the words stalling on his lips, the entire system of energy flow pauses as well. The mages all make a sound of discomfort as their tangled energies are yanked on.

And he realizes that that shouldn't have happened. Now, bound to all of them with brilliant, electric lines of light, he's the only one who has any control of all the power in the room. Not just his and Derek's, but _everyone's_. 

Gazing down at the page he's not sure how to continue. Backtracking seems impossible, but completing the spell as it is written will be fatal. Even completing the original wording would be bad, flooding Stiles with Derek's stolen power, depriving the Alpha of his life force. 

He wracks his brain, trying to come up with anything from his studies. He's looked through so many different books and mythologies. Nothing had ever been like this. His head is pounding, the energies still trickling out of him, no matter how he holds onto them. What can he… He doesn't-

Abruptly he realizes that he can feel the little piece of bone hidden still in his change pocket, humming with a harmony to all the energy in the room, but on its own frequency. His mom's sigil. 

The workaround. 

The parallel path.

He doesn't know a spell that will fix this. But what he _has_ learned in his hodge-podge education is that the words aren't really the important part. The belief, the intention… those things make a spell, no matter the language. Rhymes and verse bring harmony, ease the process… 

But they aren't required. The intent is what matters. And his intent is to take the loophole. To create the workaround. To deviate from the path he's been set on.

He takes a deep, stuttering breath, looking back up at Derek where he kneels, panting in horrible shallow gasps. He changes the words around in his head, using English this time. He keeps it simple. 

"Now this bridge is forged to thee," he begins, deviating from the spell and invoking an altered version of the words used on Derek. The bone burns hot in his pocket, connecting to him through the cloth.

"It won't work boy," Hakeem calls wearily, as though he'd expected it. 

But Stiles doesn't know anything about magical disciplines and rules. He doesn't know about what's supposed to be possible in Hakeem's world of magecraft. He knows the beat of Derek's heart. It's fading. He listens to the power-high pounding from the others in the room. The words aren't important. The lines of power tangling through them all, slipping through Stiles's hands - that's what matters.

"Back to me," he murmurs, putting every ounce of belief in the possibility that it can work. The air vibrates with the harmony of the rhyme. Slowly he feels the energies twist and pull, the flow stalling once more. He hears his grandfather's wink. Tastes his mother's laugh. 

And at that moment, he knows it will work. 

He _knows_ it in the deepest place in his being. Taking a deep, slow breath he stares back hard at Hakeem, a dark, feral grin spreading across his features. 

And then he pulls.

He pulls, and the energy starts flowing towards him again. Flowing in reverse.

The witch looks wary, then his eyes widen in fear and fury. "No!" Hakeem cries. "This cannot happen."

"Back to me," Stiles repeats more firmly, voice raw. The bone is burning hot now, like fire on his skin but he doesn't care. His leg shakes as the power runs through him the wrong way. 

The minions look scared now, but they don't dare leave their circles.

"Master?" the woman calls, voice shaking with concern.

"Bring the power back to me!" he cries and flings his hands out, hitting two of the invisible lines of energy which twist above the gravel lines. The third conduit, Hakeem's, disappears abruptly after a moment, snapping into him with a backlash of bitter-tasting energy foreign energy, but Stiles doesn't stop.

He pulls. He pulls harder than anything he's ever done before, ripping painful cost out of the minions. They're screaming, screaming as their life force is ripped clumsily away. The rush is even more that before, more painful this time, more human. But it's not Derek's life force. 

It's not Derek's.

Before long the screams stop, and the energy influx comes to an abrupt end moments later, staggering him. The power is more than he could ever hold, spiraling up inside him till his mind feels like it's on fire and his breath has to move a mountain, but he never takes his eyes from Derek's. He's gasping, but he stumbles out of his circle toward Derek's failing body. Derek looks up at him with glassy, green, human eyes, brows tight with pain and desperate hope. Stiles presses a shaking hand to his chest. To his heart. 

He pushes.

The power floods back into Derek like a dam has broken inside both of them. His eyes grow sharp, then flare red, pupils dilating wildly as he shakes. But there's more, more pouring out of Stiles than he took from Derek, desperate power from the lives of two practitioners of magic, now trying to find its level between them. He writhes, face scraping across the ground as Stiles half-falls forward, bracing against the concrete with his other hand, breaths coming in hideous gasps.

The shift begins and the tape splits off of Derek's mouth as he cries out, fangs bared and face warping as his wolf side comes back full, then beyond. The duct tape wrapping his arms and legs tears as his body flexes impossibly, back arching off the ground and chest pushing against Stiles's palm. He howls, a deep sub-harmonic version of his canine cousins' call.

Stiles crumbles. The vivid energy lines fade from his vision as dim reality returns for him. He collapses to the floor gasping as Derek twists away and slips into a crouch, skin blackened by dark fur sprouting over him as the fiercest side of him explodes to the surface. He scrambles back until only the glow of his crimson eyes can be seen in the darkness. Then they too blink out as he stalks his prey.

Stiles struggles to push up onto one elbow, looking back at the aftermath of the spell. He knows Hakeem had evaded his altered spell. Now he's standing behind a hastily throw shield within the frame of the carefully laid circle in which he'd originally been standing. The connection between Stiles's circle and the recipient circle would have prevented that but the line had been severed with some quick thinking and quicker footwork. 

But Stiles smirks at him. The circle isn't made of salt. The materials are designed to be _conduits_ , not barriers. It's not going to hold. 

Hakeem knows it too. He scrabbles forward towards Stiles, breaking the barrier, a wild look of rage on his face as he yanks the knife out of his robe. 

Stiles just lifts his chin. It's too late. A shadow passes over him. It's Derek, already running, charging forward in great leaping bounds that leave scars in the concrete. 

There is a moment, like when a car slams into a concrete wall, where everything stops. Then Hakeem is slumping back, falling into a limp pile of human and robe, a bloody red hole where his heart should have been. 

It's a wolf's head that turns to look at him, and Stiles is mesmerized by the obsidian fur and vermillion eyes. His fangs are bared as he sucks in breath, then tips his head up to the sky and howls again. It shakes Stiles to his bones but it is a glorious, perfect sound. 

They are alive. They survived. 

A giddy laugh burbles out from Stiles's chest as he claps a shaking hand over his mouth. At the sound, Derek tosses the detritus in his clawed hand aside and slinks back over to Stiles. His breaths are ragged and canine as he crouches down beside him. His breathing steadies until slowly the fur begins to recede and return to anthropomorphic features. Stiles watches, entranced. It's much slower than usual, the transformation had been so much further than he was used to seeing, and the effort to undo it seems to be more difficult after the night's events. Eventually it's just Derek before him, angry red marks on his belly, torn jeans, and all. His eyes are the last thing to change, finally clearing to green. 

They never leave Stiles's.

"Stiles?" 

The Sheriff's voice is raw and faint, but the empty concrete carries it to them. Derek takes a deep, human sounding breath, then stands. He reaches down to hand Stiles up beside him with an ease that belies his renewed strength. 

The sheriff is struggling to his feet a few yards away, a look of dismay and exhaustion crossing his features. When they near, he's still staring past his son at the corpses. 

"You ok dad?" Stiles asks, crossing the distance between them. The world shifts again, faintly, when he steps across the greater salt circle. He scuffs his foot quickly through it, dissipating the trapped energies in a crackle of static before stepping behind his dad and loosening the ties binding his wrists. "Dad?" he repeats.

"Yes, I..." His dad is staring down at the body nearest to him, blackened skin still smoldering from running aground of Stiles's warping of the magic. He gives himself a shake and then turns to wrap his son up in a fierce hug. 

"Let's get the hell out of here," he says when he releases him, and Stiles nods in fierce agreement. 

"I think I saw...," the Sheriff says, turning away and limping towards a table in the corner where some of the mages' things were sitting. Stiles stays near Derek who is still hanging back in the shadows, watching as he takes slow, deep breaths to calm himself. He doesn't ask if he's alright, since he has a feeling that would just annoy him, but he's still worried about what his magic might have done to the alpha.

"Alright, here we go," the sheriff says, drawing his gaze. The backpack he's dumping on the table reveals his cell phone and his jacket along with his pocket knife. 

"Stiles," his dad says, lifting the small rectangle of his phone and waggling it at him. Stiles steps forward, holding out his hands as his dad swings his arm to toss it. He catches it with only a minor fumble, grinning as he shoves it in his pocket.

"Is Derek's there?" he asks, striding into the lone beam of light as he moves across the room.

There's a sound. A pop, really. He jerks to a stop, blinking numbly as he looks down at his chest.   
There a… hole.   
Just a… and a fresh point of red spreading fast on his skin.

"Stiles?" his dad says faintly, eyes wide.

"Oh," he says, looking back up at him and subsequently collapsing to the ground.


	13. Chapter 13

Rage hits him like an explosion, red and raw and feral and there's a mere split second before claws and fangs make their desperate return. He feels his guts churn and stretch as his body expands. The pain is sharp, electric, but so much lesser than his fury.

As Derek leaps past Stiles's body, he hears the sheriff talking behind him, "-under fire. We're at the old Fish 'N Bits factory warehouse on spruce." 

Derek's head is pounding with the explosive rush of were-ing so fast, but it was necessary. Another shot fires off and he crouches too late, but her aim is off in the dark. He twists and bounds into the darkness, hard and fast.

"Send a bus. Send anything. My son…" the sheriff's voice cracks and Derek's heart feels like it might explode as it pumps even harder. "S-single GSW to the chest, large caliber," he continues, steel determination pushing through the crumbling emotion in his voice as he crawls across the floor to cover.

With his night-vision back Derek can see her, aiming it at him and pulling on the trigger. On instant reflex he crouches and leaps aside, lightning fast. But nothing happens. It's jammed. He bares his teeth as he skids to the side, recovering his balance, claws making a terrible scraping sound on the smooth concrete. Derek throws his muzzle back and lets out the terrible howl of the imminent kill. His muscles bunch in unbelievable power, more than he has ever felt before. The savage glory of it makes him wish his pack were here, to circle and kill their enemy together. 

He leaps.

"No," she cries, pounding at the magazine of her pistol, trying to force another custom wolf-killing round into the modified chamber. 

It's too late. 

He plows into her, claws extended to rend her vital organs as he tackles her with a wild amount of force, tearing a guttural scream from her. The force of the impact means they're both flying through the air till their combined bodyweight accelerates them into the ground. 

Her head bounces with a sickening crack against the concrete as they land and she goes abruptly silent. He's not sure if she's dead yet, but the deep gouges to her abdomen will kill her eventually even if the impact hasn't. 

Derek couldn't care less about eventualities. 

He turns his head so that his massive jaw opens over her throat and he bites down, growling as he pulls, tearing out her throat. He opens his mouth and shakes his head, flinging free bits of skin and blood and then turns, leaving her as so much meat.

He's stumbling, reeling at the excess power in his system, at the transformation that has gone so much further than before tonight. His sheer mass is nearly twice his human size and he curls over, trying to breathe through the mess of energies in his chest. Whatever Stiles had done makes him feel like he's just had all his insides taken out and put back in a different order.

But he doesn't care about that either.

He gasps his way through the beginning of the return transformation as he leaves her behind, heading straight for the pale, writhing lump of human that is Stiles. The Sheriff leans out of cover and squints past him at the lump in the darkness then slowly drags himself upright, face grim as Derek hurries past him.

His adrenaline is still running too high to complete the transformation but he has enough control to get back to mostly human as he drops to his knees in front of Stiles's prone form. 

There's a hole nearly the size of his fist in Stiles's ribs. The tattoo below his nipple is now an unrecognizable scrap of ink in torn skin. Only one side of his chest moves when he sucks in a breath. His eyes are wide but glassy as his breaths come in shallow lopsided rasps.

"Derek!" he gasps out, voice sounding panicked as he tries to push himself upright with uncoordinated little shoves. But it's a futile effort. He groans and collapses back, shuddering in what is surely excruciating pain. His fingers are hard on Derek's forearm, digging in desperately as he gasps horribly for breath that doesn't come like it should. A sucking chest wound with a collapsed lung; Derek knows the sound well enough by now, though somehow it sounds worse on someone else. On someone human, who can't heal it in a few agonizing minutes.

His skin is oddly reddened, prickling with irritation around the wound. Poison like the one that had been shot at Erica. But there's no one to heal Stiles and he can't decide whether he should let it bleed and hopefully let out some poison, or try to cover the wound to stop the bleeding. 

"Damnit," he bellows, punching the ground hard enough to chip the concrete. 

Stiles makes a sound of protest, fingers fumbling towards Derek's hand. The cuts are already healed but he curls his fingers into Stiles's hand, staring at him as though Stiles can tell him how to fix this. Black edges over his forearm as he draws out what pain he can, but it makes him dizzy because apparently nothing is working the same inside him anymore. He keeps at it, nonetheless, and Stiles squeezes his hand in thanks.

Derek thinks frantically, going over his modest knowledge of human injuries. The poisoned bullet that had hit Erica had embedded in her shoulder. He'd had to dig it out, leaving far more time for the poison to work its insidious purpose. But this time, despite the large caliber and larger hole, the bullet was through-and-through. 

Seal it then, he decides, wadding up a scrap of Stiles's discarded tee shirt and pressing it down with a palm to the younger man's chest. His hand is still rough with claws and fur. He doesn't even try to back down the Were further. His heart is pounding too fast and there's too much fury surging through his veins. The Sheriff is already on his way back, shuffling quickly as he can on his injured leg, secured pistol tucked into his belt. His face is grim but there's a panicked tightness around the eyes that Derek can't look at.

"We need to seal it before the bleeding collapses his other lung," he says, voice urgent as he kneels roughly next to Derek. "I'll keep pressure on it. I need you to go look for something to seal it with, like plastic or tape or something," he explains, hands slipping up alongside Derek's in a practiced motion, smoothly transferring the pressure. As smoothly as it's done, Stiles groans again, huffing faint, panicked little breaths. He looks up at Derek and his dad with wide eyes.

Derek stands fast, running off into the darkness, tearing his way through the bags of their captors. It doesn't take long and soon he comes back with a crumpled piece of plastic wrapper and a roll of duct-tape found in one of the dead henchmen's backpacks. The sheriff nods as Derek kneels and sets the objects on the ground beside him.

"Good. I can work with that."

"M'guyver," Stiles chokes out, then coughs over the inferior breath, blood flecks spattering on his lips.

The sheriff curses under his breath as he motions Derek over with his chin. "Keep the pressure on. I'll seal the wound."

Derek comes and replaces his hands, trying to remember not to press too hard with his augmented strength. Stiles just stares at him, eyebrows drawn tight with pain, lips parted and bloody. They move in an attempt to shape a word but no sound comes out. He stares back, willing Stiles to have the strength to hold on.

The Sheriff makes quick work of the makeshift seal, and soon he's tying down another clean-ish scrap of tee-shirt down over the wound.

"Help me get him on his side," the Sheriff says to Derek, motioning towards Stiles's shoulders. Derek kneels at his head and slides gentle blood-streaked hands under Stiles's blood-streaked body, lifting him easily. He starts to turn him but the Sheriff's hand is hard on his shoulder.

"No, injured side down," the Sheriff orders. "Keep the pressure off his good lung."

Derek does as he's told, cradling Stiles's head till the Sheriff can fold a discarded backpack and slip it under his ear. Amber eyes gaze back at his. Like he's holding on with sheer willpower. And he must be, because he should have been out from shock by now. The Sheriff tugs half of a torn shirt over Stiles's body for warmth, pressing a palm to his son's pale cheek, holding him as he shakes.

"I found these on her," the Sheriff says, handing Derek a keychain. "Can you…?"

He takes the tiny glinting object and nods, though he pries Stiles's hand off his arm and stands with reluctance. He moves quickly, heading for what looks like the door out in search of a vehicle. There's a dark van, but the keys don't open the door. It's a newer model, and even if he knew how to hotwire a basic car, the electronic ignition would confound him. When he leans over the railing the only other thing he sees is a pair of motorcycles. Useless for Stiles. He slams the door in frustration as he comes back in. The worn panel cracks from the force of it.

"No good," Derek says, pronouncing his words carefully around his fangs.

Pain and frustration crease the sheriff's face. 

"That's fine. That's okay. They'll be here soon, son, I know it," he says, though nobody believes him.

Stiles tries to smile. Then he fumbles a hand down towards his pocket. After a moment he finds whatever he was looking for. A little chip of bone, as it turns out. A sigil carved on it. He holds it out to his father, and his dad wraps a hand over it, curling Stiles's hand around it beneath his.

"Mom's favorite," he murmurs, lips trying to curve into a smile again but failing. "She… it saved us."

The Sheriff makes a sound of joy and pain wrapped into one as he runs a bloody hand over his son's forehead, pushing back his sweat-matted hair.

Derek makes his way back with slow steps. There's nothing to hurry for now. There's nothing he can do and the adrenaline is waning in the face of the hopelessness of the situation. The werewolf fades from him, completely useless now. For all his power, for all the life surging around under his skin, he is no mage. He's nothing but a beast. Stiles blinks and tries to look at him and Derek takes a ragged breath as he steps close. The healing skin on his abdomen pulls faintly as Derek kneels down beside Stiles again, setting a hand on his shoulder to connect them again. 

His skin. He freezes, looking down at his belly, at the wounds made to trigger his regeneration, to give Stiles a target for his magic. 

"Stiles," he says, voice rough. He feels his heart skip and then start to beat more fervently as he huffs a deep breath, willing his claws back. He drags them across the still-healing skin, rending long scratches that well over with fresh blood. The Sheriff is staring at him like he can't even begin to think.

"Stiles," he repeats, drawing those glassy golden eyes his way. He grips the boy's hand and presses it to his belly where the new tears are already starting to close over the faint outlines of the deeper healing stab-wounds. "Take it," he says. 

Stiles stares at him, blinking as he tries to keep up. 

He sees when understanding hits, then the flash of dismay that follows. "Come on, you can do this," Derek says, voice rough. "Take it, Stiles."

Stiles looks at him, blood-flecked lips parted over shallow panting breaths. He can see the refusal brewing.

"Please," he says, voice cracking over the word. "Please."

There's a look in Stiles's eyes of something so deep and so raw that Derek can't even understand it, but he understands when it's followed by a look of determination, when Stiles's limp fingers flex in the torn mess of his skin. For a long moment, nothing at all happens and Derek fears he might be too late. But then...

Slowly he sees a faint light reflecting from deep within Stiles's eyes, a light that isn't really there. The light of his soul. It takes a few seconds more, but he does feel the pull of his magic again, though to a severely lesser degree. Eventually he feels the skin tighten and pull, then split as some of the wounds re-open, more blood spilling down over Stiles's hand and his own already-crimson jeans. But it falters, Stiles falters, eyes fluttering as he struggles to stay conscious. His hand slips from Derek's body to slap against Derek's knee, little bone sigil clattering to the concrete. The wounds begin to heal back up again. 

"Hey, 't's ok," Stiles mumbles, blood trickling anew at the corner of his mouth. His hand pats Derek's thigh drunkenly. "Dad… you' gon' be okay," he says, drawing the Sheriff's hollowed gaze. 

Stiles gasps abruptly, body twisting in agony. He lets out a terrible mewling sound of pain that has Derek closing his eyes and tightening his fist so hard his claws cut his palm. He doesn't understand. He's terrified he'd done the wrong thing, telling Stiles to use his magic. The Sheriff holds his son's side so he doesn't roll over onto the wound as he gasps through the pain. Then Stiles goes pliant again. They sit there in silence for a moment. Derek slips his fingers under Stiles's palm, pressing the sigil back where it belongs. The grip is returned, though it is weak. 

"Our plan sucks," Stiles manages.

"Yeah," Derek says, trying to keep his voice steady. "I did tear out her throat though."

Stiles wheezes a tiny laugh. "Good."

"I'm sorry," Derek whispers.

Stiles shakes his head minutely. "I am… I…," he breaks off speaking to cough, a sticky, thick sound that shakes his whole body. He takes several more rasping breaths before he manages, "Wanted… say things… to you."

"It's okay. I know. I know enough," Derek reassures him, touching fingers softly to Stiles's cheek.

Stiles's eyes soften as Derek takes even more of his pain. They hold each other's gaze until Derek starts shaking from the strain of it, till sweat is dripping down his skin and his vision is blurring with the borrowed pain. He loses his hold on the ability and Stiles's pain slips through his fingers as he blinks away a wave of dizziness.

Stiles groans when the pain returns but he tries to smile reassuringly up at Derek as his breathing becomes even more labored.

"Hey, Derek?" Stiles gasps out faintly, and Derek leans close, meeting his pain-bright eyes. 

"What's it… look like?"

Derek frowns in confusion, desperately trying to understand. He can't mean the broken mess that is Stiles's body.

"My magic...," he explains, then trails off, looking faintly wistful under the bone-tiredness of his aura. 

Derek closes his eyes for a moment to call up the memories. Memories that had been mere minutes ago and yet seemed like a lifetime. "Like fire," he murmurs. It's always been fire with him. 

Always fire.

He lets his lips, then his forehead come down to rest against Stiles's temple as he says, "It's like you have fire in your soul, fighting to get out."

Stiles makes a sound that might have been laugh or a hum of pleasure if it hadn't ended in a gurgling cough that splatters more blood against the concrete. The way his body shudders weakly is a horrible thing. 

His eyes drift closed. The hand in his goes limp.

"Stiles."

There is silence.

He shakes his shoulder, presses his palm to a clammy cheek, digs his claws into his scalp hard enough to pinch. "Stiles stay here. Stay here."

But he can hear the beat of his heart slowing, the weakness of his breath rattling in his chest.

"Damnit Stiles," he whispers. He counts the beats, feels them in his bones, knowing that the last is almost here. 

The Sheriff doesn't move. He just stares at the pale, quiet face of his son.

The wail of sirens covers the faint beats. It's grating. Sickening. They're approaching fast now. Not that it matters. 

Derek bares his teeth, feels the claws digging into his skin as the werewolf inside him struggles to break free, to run from it all, to howl in mourning at the moon. He has to leave. He jerks to his feet shakily. He knows it will only be worse if he stays, if others find him like this. It will be dangerous for his pack. He _has_ to leave.

He just stares, frozen, looking down at the bloodied, limp form of Stiles before him, rattling with the faintest of struggling breaths.

"Go," the Sheriff says faintly.

Derek can't seem to move. Can't even move his eyes from Stiles's face.

"You have to go now Derek," he says, voice firm as he looks up. And that familiar irresistible, unbreakable thread of determination is there. Almost like it's in their bones, the iron will that both Stilinskis have.

Derek stumbles a step back, then another till he fades seamlessly into the shadows. He watches as the Sheriff crumbles, curling over his son's form, terrible gasps wracking his body. Then, desperately he slips away, each step quicker than the last till he bursts from the warehouse and out into the abandoned streets. He chokes on a cry, throat stretching as the wolf tears its way through. He stumbles, gasping hoarsely through the change as he flees. His paws hit the dirt and he pushes to his feet. He kicks away the tattered remnants of his blood-stained jeans and lunges forward.

 

Finally. _Finally_ he runs, fading into the night, letting the wolf take over and leaving what's left of his humanity behind.


	14. Chapter 14

A black wolf runs through the trees in the Beacon Hills preserve. To an observer he would appear nothing more, though eyes that shimmer a bloody, mournful red might give one pause. The alpha, the adrenaline that kept him monstrous had faded as had the terrible place he'd run from. Now that's all he is. A wolf. 

A running wolf.

But he is not alone anymore, even in his solitude. The howls call to him, and he loses himself in instinct, calling back.

He remembers then, vaguely, that he doesn't actually want to go with them, no matter how much it pulls at him. No matter how strong the call of pack is. So he turns and runs, bounding over the earth once more, chest heaving with the exertion and wonder of pulling oxygen through him and leaving everything else behind. He's getting tired, it's true. He hasn't really stopped to rest or eat or drink for… well, some amount of time. Almost as long as he can remember, actually.

But he's called them, and while he's tired, they are determined. They are quiet as they flank him, fanning out into the trees until they can close in on him like a school of fish or a tightening noose. But they are imposters of a sort. For all that they wear their paws and pelts with more ease than ever, they don't know what it means to be a wolf. Not really. He skids and turns sharply, trying to cut through their ranks.

They are faster than he had expected. Or he's more weary than he'd thought.

It fits.

He feels the weariness in his bones. In his soul. He's been running for so very long.

The big one… Boyd. It's Boyd who body-checks him, sending him sprawling, killing his momentum. The others dart around him, circling, herding him to a halt. He growls, but they just stare back at him, eyes golden and bright and intelligent. Tails and ears low, submissive even as they defy him, blocking his escape. 

It does not placate him.

He lashes out at them, teeth snapping. He gets a piece of Erica's ear when she lunges for him, reckless as always. When he twists, shoving past her, he dives for Isaac's weak points. The golden-brown wolf scrabbles back, ears flat and tail curled hard under his body as he whimpers, cowering below Derek. The larger grey wolf that is Boyd is tensed to leap, to intercept him should he go for Isaac's throat as his instincts are demanding he do.

It is enough to send Derek skidding to a stop. His mind is starting to clear a little in the presence of his pack. Not just wolves. He knows this. He knows they are people too. And not just any people. People he's responsible for. People he has neglected, whom he has done a deep disservice to.

And it sinks in, though it hurts, this additional reminder of his failures. But he can't continue to wallow like this. Stiles may be gone, but that is no excuse for him to abandon his pack, to frighten them like this. His breath heaves in deep canine gasps as he stands, legs splayed, staring at them. 

They are all frozen in the dull twilight, staring at each other.

Then suddenly there is a hint of motion. Now, finally having him stopped, Erica is taking the risk of reverting to her human form. Presumably, to tell him whatever she'd been shouting at him earlier before he'd bolted. Her flaxen fur recedes fast, leaving creamy bare skin and flashing golden eyes.

"He's alive," she slurs out as soon as her mouth has re-formed enough to utter human words.

Derek stares at her as the fur fades away, leaving a naked young woman who crawls to him in the leaves and grabs his head to hold him and make him hear, heedless of his fangs. She says it again as her lips finish softening towards human.

"He's alive." 

 

-o0o-

 

He doesn't understand how or why he knows to go home instead of to Stiles's house, but he does. He leaves his pack behind again, even though he knows better. They follow him from a distance anyway, fading slowly into the night as he nears his home, when it becomes clear that he's not abandoning them again. When he reaches the clearing, he drops from wolf to human in an aching transformation that leaves him on all fours. A pair of jeans is laid out in the dirt for him, though they've been outside a few days. A hopeful offering from a worried pack. Eventually he pulls himself to his feet and pulls the clothing on before he staggers up to the house. 

He stares at the jeep, parked where it always is on the driveway next to the Camaro, which someone must have driven home for him.

The light is on in the living room.

Derek finds himself moving closer, pulled by a need to find out that's slowly overwhelming the fear that this is some sort of dream, some trick. Soon he's jogging, hopping up to the porch without touching the steps and throwing the door open before he can change his mind.

Stiles is just standing there, features slightly wary, slightly bleak. He makes an aimless, frustrated gesture, staring over at him. But whatever it is he sees on Derek's face has the bitter edge fading from his features, has him swallowing.

"Hey," he says. The loose tee shirt makes him look smaller, hanging from him and still wrapped under his coat. "So. Turns out the magic worked after all."

Derek can't move. All he can do is stare.

Stiles clears his throat awkwardly, breaking his gaze. "By the time we made it to the hospital the hole in my lung healed so all they had to do was drain the blood and stitch me up. Since my Dad is the Sheriff he was able to get me an early release by claiming he needed me in protective custody. Though I don't think he thinks I'm okay. Took forever to convince him I was good to go out, let alone drive," he rambles, fingers fiddling with the zipper pull on his coat as he looks down at the dirty floorboards. 

"But anyway. I'm fine now. Though taking the stitches out hurt like a bitch," he adds, flicking a glance over at Derek. He swallows again. He takes a shaky breath. "Derek?" he asks, voice breaking over the word. And then Derek is moving towards him, touching him, hands over his face and throat and then-,

And then his palm touches Stiles's chest, and his heart, _his heart_ is beating fast under Derek's palm. Derek presses his hand there, knees going weak at the strong, heady rhythm. He kneels at Stiles's feet, pressing his face into his abdomen, resting his forehead against what must be newly-healed ribs. He tries not to shake. Stiles's fingers lift hesitantly, then stretch out to touch his head, to slip into the messy threads of his hair. They tighten against his head, shaking as they do. 

"You didn't come," Stiles whispers, voice thick. 

Derek just shakes his head, lost for words. Instead he rises to his feet to get back up to Stiles's height, to look at him. He reaches out to run his hand over Stiles's cheekbone again, to look at his eyes bright with life and not the glassy reflection of pain.

"I thought…," Stiles begins, then shakes his head. 

Derek feels his hand moving almost involuntarily, fingers brushing tentatively, then more firmly at the hem of Stiles's shirt. Stiles is frozen, locked solid as he watches Derek with slightly widened eyes. Derek pushes the shirt up, running the cotton over surprisingly toned abs until the first tattoo is revealed on his light skin. Derek frowns as he brushes his thumb over the sprawl of ink. A Celtic knot. He feels the skin under his fingers shudder and he looks up abruptly, gazing into Stiles's eyes. 

But it's a shudder that has his eyes fluttering closed, lips parting. Derek jerks his hand back, breath coming sharp through his nose before his fingers drift forward again, pushing the fabric up till he can see the next tattoo, then the next. Some of them arc together, others stand alone. 

His other hand comes up to push at the edge of Stiles's coat, and Stiles cants his shoulders back in response, letting the garment slide back till it falls to the floor with his shrug. As Derek slides the shirt up further, Stiles lifts his arms and Derek keeps pushing till the material bunches up over his head and Stiles pulls it off and throws it aside.

And then Stiles is reaching for him, grabbing his head and pulling his mouth down to meet his own. It's electric, the way the sensation ripples through him, like he can finally, truly believe that this is real. The way Stiles presses his body tight to Derek's chest, heedless of the dried blood and dirt still clinging to him in places.

The warmth of his body is a gift, a beautiful affirmation that he is not only there, but alive. Breathing. All systems go. Go, go, go. His fingers tighten on the lean frame of Stiles's hips, pulling the denim closer. Stiles takes it as a suggestion, stepping closer, pushing against Derek's chest until he steps back, stumbles into the wall. Hard. Because Stiles is kissing him like nothing else matters, desperate and demanding. His skin is pressed to Derek's, warmth building between them even in the cool fall air. 

"Say yes," Stiles breathes when he lifts his head, fingers fisting in Derek's hair. "Please say yes."

"Yes," Derek replies, taking his mouth again and licking past his lips and his teeth into his mouth to taste the competing textures of him, the silky smooth skin, the rough muscle of his tongue. The raw, vital, energy of him.

Stiles's fingers are fumbling at his waistband and then the button comes free and the denim goes sliding down his legs. It feels better that way after so long running wild. The air on his skin is almost enough, but he needs more. He needs to feel Stiles's skin. Needs to get the denim he grinds himself against on Stiles's thigh out of the way as Stiles gasps against his mouth, hands tugging at his own pants. 

When that fabric comes free too, Derek groans, arching his body against Stiles's bare skin, pressing against him to cover as much of himself with Stiles's warmth as he can. Stiles's leg goes over his hip and then he's grabbing Stiles's backside and lifting, pulling him up to wrap around his torso. It's nothing to carry him now, his strength finally proving useful as he moves them at Stiles's behest towards his bedroom. 

This time it's right. This time it's about life and a bond so tangled and deep-seated that he can feel it wrapped around his very soul. It's going to be fumbling and messy and perfect. He lifts his head as he sits on the bed, gazes up at Stiles for a long moment, holding him tight and just staring at him, at the fire in his eyes, the amber spark that hasn't given way after all.

"It’s you," Stiles says, grinning over the emotion that's filling his eyes. He kisses Derek softly and says, "Only you." 

The words don't make any sense and yet they make all the sense in the world. Stiles slips his feet down from the bed and stands away from Derek's lap, erection bobbing with the motion, but he stays connected, fingers running down Derek's arms, then his thighs. Stiles drops to his knees between Derek's feet, looking up at him briefly before sliding his hands over Derek's skin to touch his shaft laying against the fabric Derek's sitting on. 

As Derek gazes at Stiles's face, abruptly he realizes what it reminds him of. Stiles looks at him the same way he looks at his magic, like there's something vital, something precious under his fingers. Something wild, something that will challenge him and push him to his limits. Derek watches as Stiles's eyes study his body, as his fingers skim over the heated flesh and trace the edge of his tightening foreskin. A novelty, given the way he lingers there before his eyes snap up to Derek's and he goes pink. 

Like with everything else he's ever done, Stiles takes the unknown, the uncertain, and takes it head on. He touches Derek more firmly and then leans his head forward to taste the tip of him. Derek takes a shaky breath, leaning back a little on his hands to give Stiles more room and himself a better view as Stiles cradles his cock in his hands and brings the head to his lips.

Never let it be said that Stiles isn't a quick learner. It takes only a few abortive attempts before he slips saliva over Derek's length, loosens his jaw and breathes through his nose as he takes more of Derek into his mouth. He even makes a proud hum as he slides down, the vibrations making Derek suck in a sharp breath and cup a hand around the side of Stiles's head, fingers stroking along his scalp as he moves.

By the time Stiles starts to test his gag reflex, pushing deeper and deeper with each thrust, Derek's thigh is shaking. He puts a stilling hand to Stiles's shoulder and he lifts off, eyebrows going up in question. But Derek just leans down to capture his mouth. As amazing as Stiles's mouth feels on him, he's too far away. Derek slips his hands under Stiles's arms and lifts him rather than explaining what he wants. Words aren't coming easily to him now anyway, even more than usual. After so long spent as a wolf, he has to touch, to move to communicate, so that's what he does, pulling them both further up on the bed and laying back so that Stiles is settled on top of him between his legs. 

Stiles keeps up with the changes easily, and also as usual, takes the lead again quickly, rocking his hips against Derek's as his mouth travels over Derek's neck and throat, down to his shoulders and across his chest. Derek lets Stiles take, lets himself be taken. Lets himself be wanted. Loved. And he loves in return, hands stroking, encouraging. He lets them speak for him, responding to the things he likes as Stiles learns his body in a new way.

Stiles is grinding against him, sliding their erections together between their hips, and soon it becomes too much to ignore any longer. Derek can feel the throbbing pulse through the thin skin on Stiles's cock and the faint layer of precome coating his tip. 

Stiles pauses, presses up a little on his hands, breath coming fast and deep, eyes bright and so alive when he looks down at Derek.

"Can I…" Stiles hesitates, like he's not sure that he can or should ask. He glances down between them, where he's slotted between Derek's legs.

"Inside me?" Derek asks, spreading his thighs further as Stiles presses slowly against him.

Stiles breathes out a moan, cock sliding down between Derek's thighs in a slow glide. "Yeah. Yeah, I want to be inside you."

"Yes," Derek says without hesitation. After all, Stiles is already inside his soul, inside his very nature with his magic, and most difficult of all, inside his heart. His body is just one more way to show that.

He leans up to kiss Stiles, then holds him steady as he leans away to get the lube from his bedside table. Stiles takes it from him with another kiss in trade, then slides down on the bed a little. He strokes Derek, lifting his cock up to lay against his belly. With his thumb he cracks the cap on the lube and carefully drizzles some on his fingers. Derek spreads his knees, opens himself to Stiles like no one else.

Stiles presses a kiss to Derek's knee, then moves his lubricated hand closer, fingers cool and tentative as they brush at the base of the crease of Derek's backside. Slowly they slide downward over Derek's hole, spreading the lubricant. It's not enough, but Stiles picks up on that without being told, drizzling some more onto his hand and spreading it around again. He lifts his gaze to watch Derek's face as his deft fingers stroke the sensitive skin there.

Derek nods at him. Gets a smile back. Stiles bites his lip then and curls his two middle fingers slightly, pressing at the tight rim of Derek's hole. He glances up for reassurance, and when Derek nods, he presses in, pushing his fingers through the slickness and into Derek's body.

The stretch and burn is something he hasn't felt in a long time, not since New York, but at the same time it's so very familiar. And better this time because it's Stiles's breath on his thigh and Stiles's hand pressing into him and Stiles's eyes alternately checking his face for comfort and watching what he's doing.

In verification of thoughts he'd long avoided, his body shivers as Stiles's knuckles bump past his rim, long and articulated as they push slowly into him and then back out again. Derek curls his fingers into his bedsheets and moans as Stiles pushes deeper, more confidently this time, then twists as he pulls his hand back again.

Stiles swears under his breath, leans his forehead against Derek's thigh, but when Derek opens his eyes to look down at him he finds Stiles's gaze on his face, rapt as he fingers him with a steadily quickening twist and thrust.

"Stiles," he pleads, and Stiles gets the message. He pulls his fingers free and takes his cock in hand, holding it steady for the application of more lube. 

He runs worshipful hands over Derek's thighs and hips as he moves close, sliding his knees underneath Derek's. Carefully he lines himself up, concentrating hard enough that his tongue peeks out of the corner of his mouth as he shifts his weight to find a good angle.

When he gets the head of his cock past the rim, Stiles turns his face into his shoulder, panting with the sensation. But when he slides the rest of the way in, his eyes flash open and he moans almost like he's surprised.

"Oh my god," he whispers, staring down at Derek in wonder. "I'm _in_ you."

And Derek can't even roll his eyes he's too much in the same moment. He lifts a hand to Stiles's face, and Stiles nuzzles into his palm before lowering his head to take Derek's mouth again.

Then, tentatively, he begins to move. At first his strokes are uneven and Stiles is prone to getting distracted in the sensations and forget what he was doing, but after a bit he finds his balance, finds a pattern he can build on, driving himself into Derek's body.

Stiles lays down against him, presses his face against Derek's cheek as he presses into him with shallow thrusts that have their whole bodies sliding against each other. His arms slide around Derek's torso, under his back against the bed like a hug, and it's a little awkward but it fills him, fills the emptiness that has lingered in his chest for weeks. He kisses Stiles's cheekbone and wraps his arms around Stiles's shoulders and neck, pulling them tight together.

He savors the closeness, the physical pleasure of connection that goes beyond the sexual stimulation. Stiles twists his face to look at him, to press the sweaty edge of his face against Derek's cheekbone, then against his lips and his chin. 

"Always you," Stiles pants, lifting his head to look into his eyes. "Always."

Derek doesn't reply with words, but he gives his answer with his touch, digging his fingers into Stiles's body, tightening down around Stiles as he thrusts into him.

Stiles's eyes might actually be glowing. Derek's not sure. They've always been lit with such fire when they're on him, but never like this. Stiles digs his toes into the sheets and thrusts harder, bowing his head down to press into Derek's neck. And then Derek is certain Stiles's eyes had been glowing because he can see a faint light glowing under his skin, under the palms he drags hard over Stiles's back. As if he needed proof to know that the man in his arms was magic.

Stiles is breathing hard against his neck and Derek tightens his body around him, licks behind Stiles's ear and nips at the soft shell of it. And then he drags his teeth lower to his neck and bites down against his skin more firmly. It's enough to drag a string of curses from Stiles's lips and has his hips stuttering. He grinds into Derek hard, and then again, and then he's locking up, arching against his arms and erupting inside him on a stuttering moan.

When the orgasm breaks, he sucks in a deep breath and melts against Derek's chest, going limp as he breathes through it. He's shaking when he lifts his face and brushes his lips against Derek's, but his eyes are bright with wonder and warmth and then he's easing back, sliding free with a hiss of breath and moving down Derek's body to lick Derek's straining cock. His breath is still coming in little pants against Derek's skin but he doesn't wait to catch his breath. Stiles just wraps his lips around him and swallows him down as quickly as he can manage.

It's uneven and sloppy and comes with too many teeth and it's absolutely perfect. Derek is already straining not to fuck up into Stiles's mouth when Stiles finds Derek's come-slick hole with his fingers and thrusts inside him again. Surprised pleasure has him arching on the bed, fingers tipped with claws digging into the comforter as his eye surely flash red. When he looks down again Stiles's eyes are wide and bright with mischief, but his mouth, his gorgeous mouth is stretched tight around him and Derek can do nothing but fall.

Stiles finger-fucks him through the orgasm, eyes fluttering closed as Derek spills himself inside Stiles's mouth. Stiles takes to this new experience like he tackles everything else. He comes away grinning and when it's over, both of them are reaching for each other, sitting up on the bed and wrapping each other close into an embrace that's as deep as the ones they've just shared. 

Perhaps deeper.

They sit, listening to each other's heart rates slow, and each other's breaths fade to whispers. They feel each other's life in their hands, real, unquestionable. But eventually the cool air grows apparent, as does the drying fluids on his skin.

"Shower?" he suggests, and Stiles smirks up at him.

"Mindreader now, huh?" Stiles says, poking a finger at his shoulder.

Derek snorts. "Hey, who knows. You did some hefty magic re-wiring in there."

At that, however, Stiles's face goes still and his eyes widen as he looks down at Derek's bare chest, at the skin long-healed of scars. He swallows.

"Thank you," Derek says firmly. "For saving us."

Stiles glances at him, then looks back down at Derek's skin, fingers drifting over his heart. There's no sign he'd ever been wounded. Stiles, on the other hand, still bears all of his marks. More than his fair share. He looks down at his own body when Derek reaches over and touches his still-healing wound. Wounds, plural. There's a mark on Stiles's hip, burnt into the skin and faintly scarred. Two lines, starting together, then one of them loops. 

"My mom's favorite sigil," Stiles explains when Derek touches it. "It's what helped me reverse the spell." 

"It burned you," Derek says, scowling at it.

"Worth it," Stiles says, eyes glinting with a sharp amber light when he meets Derek's gaze. "All of it," he adds, glancing at his other scars as he stands away from Derek. "Come on," he says and turns, presumably going for the shower.

They shower quickly, both of them growing weary from the throes of emotion and the closing of the day. It's just a practical exercise - this time. He's certain they're going to spend plenty of less-productive time in there as well, and it makes him think about things like revising the renovation plans for the upstairs bathroom to make a bigger shower. He almost laughs at that and when Stiles starts toweling off he lifts his brows at Derek in question.

"Nothing. Just happy," Derek says, drying himself quickly, not quite ready to start talking futures he's tried not to imagine with Stiles, the futures he might have a chance at that he thought lost forever.

Stiles doesn't buy it, but he shivers, hurrying in his towel back across the living room to Derek's bed.

And isn't that something.

"Come on, dude, I'm freezing," Stiles calls, and Derek hangs up his towel and follows after him more slowly, far less bothered by the cold. And also more uncertain.

Stiles is already under the covers when Derek gets there, but his eyes light up when he sees Derek, then turn a little lascivious when they track over his bare body, but mostly only in appreciation.

"Come here," Stiles says, tugging the blankets aside for him.

And maybe it's just that easy. Derek slides in beside him and wraps an arm under his head, pulling him close. Stiles runs water-soft fingers over his beard, then down his neck to his shoulder and smiles at him. And they don't have to talk for a while, because they've been at each other's sides through thick and thin. There's no need to fill the silences.

Not that that will ever stop Stiles from filling them eventually. 

"It's really not fair, you know," Stiles murmurs as Derek's fingers trace the scarring on his ribs. "I'm the one with the art on my skin but it scars instead, even with the help of your werewolf magic."

There are still some angry raised red lines where it looks like he'd had to take out the stitches much earlier than expected as his body had tried to heal around them, a sight Derek is unfortunately familiar with. The residual ink is smeared in a pattern that resembles shattered glass or perhaps a spider-web. 

"That was one of my favorites too," Stiles mumbles. 

Derek grunts in sympathy as he touches his thumb under the edge of the tattoo and then slides his hand lower to the tattoo on Stiles's hip. They go so much further down than he'd noticed before.

"I have eighteen of them. Well, seventeen, now," Stiles says, a faint edge of shy pride to his voice. It's not something he's shared before now. When any other teenager would be boasting about their ink, he's had to keep it literally under wraps.

And he'd done it for his family, for the pack. 

Because they are his family. 

Derek is his family. He's starting to believe that. He's starting to believe that even through fire there is a future for him. And this is only the end of the beginning of things for them. 

"They're beautiful," Derek says honestly. He lifts his gaze to meet Stiles's eyes, studying the golden amber in the fading sunlight. "Will you make one for me?" he asks, fingers tracing around the infinite Celtic loop for the thirteenth time.

"Yeah," Stiles says softly. "Yeah I will."


End file.
